


Better Sex Than Revenge

by riannagreengrass



Series: The Love We Stole [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adultery, Cheating, Comfort, Extramarital Affairs, F/M, Family Issues, Fluff and Smut, Friends With Benefits, Lemon, Mutual Pining, Office Sex, Personal Growth, Pining, Post Hogwarts AU, Post-War, Rape/Non-con Elements, Redemption, Revenge Sex, Romantic Friendship, Secret Relationship, Self Confidence, Self-Acceptance, Sexual Tension, Shameless Smut, Smut, Trauma, Unconventional Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2018-12-05 01:59:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 56,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11567967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riannagreengrass/pseuds/riannagreengrass
Summary: Hermione is a self-sufficient career woman. She doesn't need a man in her life, thank you very much. Well, except for when she's looking for a little bit of fun in the bedroom department, and sometimes not even in the bedroom ... but nobody needs to know about that. Not her colleagues at the Ministry. Not her asshole of an ex husband. And certainly NOT her best friend, whom she had unresolved romantic tensions with. That is, until he shows up haggard and pale in her office, and a certain Slytherin returns into her life, just weeks before her dreaded 25th birthday. [Shameless Smut] [Not as OOC as you'd think]





	1. One Night Stand

“Mmm, yes… Yes! Harder,” a young female voice cooed sultrily from a dark alleyway, just behind a crowded night club downtown. “Yes … Yes. Hard—OH GOD.”

His hard member plunged all the way out and into her suddenly. She whimpered in delight, and he groaned in response to her grinding against him in the most addictive of ways.

“Fuck,” the guy said under his breath. Her uninhibited moaning was an incredible turn on, especially when someone might just come out for a smoke through the back of the club at any time. Her loud dirty talking wasn’t about to stop now either, not with his cock deep inside her and his nails digging into her ass cheeks, exactly the way she loved it.

“Yes … keep going, please,” she whined. The dark and narrow space they occupied was filled with their heavy panting and the sound of skin slapping on skin. He almost collapsed onto her from how roughly he was handling her, and she gasped in surprise as he found balance by grabbing onto her luscious ponytail now, pulling her head back to gain further control over his thrusting from behind. She could feel strands of her dark raven bangs getting stuck onto her forehead with the glistening sweat, but she didn’t care. She could feel it coming. Her insides clenched as he pounded into her viciously, over and over again.

“Yes! Fuck me. Just like that. FUCK ME, HARD!”

“Fuck, you little minx. I’m gonna—Oh fuck, OH FUUUUCK—"

“YES, COME—MMMMFUCK YES, YES, YES!!!”

She thought her heart would explode from the intense orgasm that coursed through her body down to the tip of her toes, and her thighs trembled against his as she felt him throb inside her too. God, she hadn’t felt so satisfied in weeks.

Their panting died down, and suddenly the cold autumn wind didn’t seem so welcoming with their sexual tension cooling. His cum was still running down her thighs, but the dark haired beauty didn’t wait for long to pull her short dress back down when he pulled out, momentarily letting her go. Her red panties were nowhere to be found, but she didn’t care about them. Replenishing her lingerie drawer was a monthly occurrence now. She had her stilettos, her coat, and her wallet. Most importantly, her wallet. She fixed her hair quickly and walked out into the neon lights, coat flung onto her back.

“Wait!”

The tall hunk called as he tried to zip his pants, baffled that she was walking away so soon. He hadn't even caught her name. A group of people flooded out then from the club’s backdoor, blocking his way in the most cliche of ways. He cursed loudly, but she only stopped to wink at him before blending into the clubbing crowd, and she was gone.

Three streets down, Hermione materialised with the glamour removed. Her hair returned to its natural dark brown curls, her skin tone a touch lighter now, and her eyes a darker tint than the light honey brown she had a moment ago.

“Mischief managed,” she said to herself with a mischievous smile as she unclasped her wallet and retrieved her wand from within. With a flick of her wand, she cleaned her thighs as she walked up the stairs to her apartment in muggle London.

It was the best one night stand she has had in a long while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First attempt at shameless smut! Who do you think the guy was? And yeah, it seems totally OOC now, but I assure you there's a reason for this seeming sexual indiscretion on Hermione's part ;) 
> 
> Next chapter: Self-Sufficient Woman.


	2. Self-Sufficient Woman

Hermione woke up in the morning, feeling refreshed and just a little achy in the back of her thighs … and maybe somewhere else. The morning after feeling was glorious. She grinned to herself as she undid her soft blue neglige that she liked to sleep in, and slipped into the shower for a nice long rinse. The heat freshened up her long, pretty ringlets, and she watched as the water ran down her glowing skin.

She closed her eyes to feel the steam rise all around her, and couldn’t help but fantasise about the man that she had so deliciously fucked last night.She ran one hand down her folds, rubbing the nub that was already moist, and not from the shower. Her other hand slid up to her nipples, and as she played with herself, she recalled the full feeling in her stomach as he had hammered into her with abandon. Hermione let out a blissful moan.  As the imagery in her mind turned to his face, she couldn't help but stop and chuckle.  No, she couldn’t continue right now when she remembered how bewildered he had looked as she walked away. So blissfully unaware of who she was.

She brought her hand up to her face and examined the juices still on her fingers in the rain shower as they washed down the drain. She sighed happily, and began to lather up her hair. She felt great all the same without climaxing. 

God, it was so good to take control of her sex life again.

Soon, she had washed, dried, and gotten dressed for the day. Her hair was in a simple up-do, with not a strand out of place. She wore sensible pumps, which she paired with a clean two piece suit. Her make up was flawless, though with none of the intricate smokey eye wing liner rubbish that she had attempted last night, before she remembered that she was going down to the club for a bang,  _under glamour._ No, she didn’t need any make up, if she didn’t want to. But she did. 

Hermione touched her lips, remembering how sexy she had felt with dark red lipstick on last night. She saw a hint of the minx that she was within, and smiled at her confident but prim career woman image in the mirror. 

No one would’ve guessed.

#

“Good morning, Hermione.”

“Good morning, Kingsley.”

The elder wizard greeted her expectantly. “I know I shouldn’t ask at this point, but—”

“Yes, the report is ready, Minister,” she teased, pulling out a heavy roll of parchment for him filled with her tiny handwriting. She walked towards her office that was adjunct to his Minister of Magic headquarters.  “I will be in your office in a moment to discuss it, if you’d like.”

Kingsley Shacklebolt smiled at her diligence. 

“You don’t need to yet. I will come find you if I need anything.  Oh, and, Hermione—”

She paused, turning to face her boss. He read her uncomprehending expression.

“I, uh—never mind," he said, changing his mind. "I’ll speak to you later then.”

She gave him a questioning look, but Kingsley said nothing more, so she returned to her office. As soon as she unlocked the door, she found the offending article glaring at her face from the front page of the Daily Prophet on the carpeted floor. At times, she wasn’t sure why she still had a subscription at all. 

Hermione picked it up like she was picking up dog poop, and threw it in the waste basket before she took another look at it by accident. 

No, she would not let a dumb article ruin her glorious day.

She had just pulled up a new case file for an allegedly abused house elf—she’d worked hard for almost half a decade to help eradicate house elf slavery, and had only recently moved departments to work more closely with the Minister on the matter—when someone knocked at her door. She saw who it was, and immediately rolled her eyes. 

Not again.

“Zabini—”

“Hello, Granger.”

“Your appointment is with the Minister, Zabini.”

"Call me Blaise," he insisted with a saccharine smile.

"While you call me Granger?" she huffed.

"And how is that incorrect these days?" he asked, sitting down on the side of her desk without even asking. How presumptuous.

"The Minister, Zabini," she reminded him, pointing towards Kingsley’s door.

“And I will be meeting him in a second," he replied nonchalantly, looking at her like he was assessing one of his fine art pieces. Zabini was a collector.

"You look positively glowing today."

She felt a blush rise to her cheeks. 

He sure had a keen eye. And he was sure to notice the Daily Prophet in the waste basket next to her, too, as he did.

“Ah, Weaslebee partying with that bitch again?” he said, picking up the offending article. 

_That bitch_ is your friend, she wanted to say, but Hermione refused to give him a reaction. It was her rule with Blaise Zabini. Less emotions, less frustration. 

“Look, babe," he said with such mocking concern, that she had the strong urge to slap his hand off when he placed the newspaper on her desk, now within her eyesight. She read the headlines and scowled when she realized that Zabini had now moved his hand to her chin. She would've slapped his hand away,  except his next words came out of the left field.

"If you’re looking for some revenge sex, all I’m saying is Draco and I are available, hm? What do you say?”

She slapped his hand away then, hard, and gave him an incredulous look.

“Are you kidding? Malfoy? Me?”

She pointed at herself, as if anyone needed to be reminded of the endless “filthy mudblood” comments Draco Malfoy had made of her through their teenage years. 

Just because they never really saw each other anymore didn’t mean she had forgotten his frequent and open declaration of how he felt about her when they were still in school.

She realised she’d broken her rule, and began to walk towards her door, angry at herself.

“Look, I appreciate the concern, but I’ve got work to do, and no time for a horny widower, who comes here to harass me with sexual advances every other week, _OR_  an engaged man so desperate for last minute fun _—as you were suggesting—_ that he would bang his worst nightmare. So please, before I sue you for workplace harassment.”

Zabini went silent for a moment, eyes wide in surprise. He then roared uncontrollably in laughter, and was practically bending over backwards in stitches. Hermione literally had to close the door shut so she could prevent his ridiculous volume from disturbing the rest of her office.

“What is so funny??”

This man was so exasperating.

“Worst … nightmare … banging, oh, I can’t … breathe—”

Hermione went beet red, humiliated by her own words.

“Okay, we are  _so_  done here.”

“NO!” he blocked the door before she could kick him out. “That is not what I … meant!” He was still wheezing.

She didn’t care. “Get. Out. Of. My. Office. Zabini.”

“Wait, you don’t understand—”

"NOW."

She shoved him out, locked her door, and charmed it for good measure. Zabini rattled her doorknob vigorously. She could even hear him trying a few unlocking spells, but eventually the security guards came, and there was another commotion outside before she heard him sulking all the way to the elevator. 

It seemed that his meeting with the Minister will be postponed again.

“GOD, WHY IS HE SO VEXING!”

Her good mood from earlier in the day was ruined. 

Hemione tried to focus on the case file on her desk again, but she couldn’t help herself. The image that Zabini had put in her head, the ménage à trois with him and Malfoy, was enough now to send her unfinished business from her morning shower into overdrive. She hiked up her skirt and wasted no time to softly stroke her already swollen clit. 

Hermione let out a sigh of relief. It felt a little sore down there from the vigorous sex she had just the night before, but her cold fingers still felt really nice right now. 

She was so wet, in truth, from just the short conversation with Zabini, that she was ready to pounce him, if not for his insulting laughter. She had never told a soul, but she’d always had the hots for the swarthy stud. A purely physical attraction, but an attraction nonetheless. She couldn't stand his personality.  She wasn’t as sure about Malfoy, but her mind was focused on the other Slytherin alum right now. 

If Hermione were to be absolutely honest, she was as horny for Zabini as he was for her, but she couldn’t risk her reputation with the loud-mouthed dumbass. No, if she wanted sex with no strings attached, she already had it all figured out:

She had moved into a 1DK apartment in muggle London just four months ago, to a world where the Golden Girl can be anonymous, instead of finding herself on the cover page of the Daily Prophet for the smallest plunder, including her already not so recent split with her husband of several years. 

She kept her tiny but cozy place under an untraceable ward, and glamoured herself every time she went out for a little ... fun. It allowed her to keep her private life separate from her public persona for once. To not be portrayed as the poor lonely divorcee, but the sexually liberated woman as she truly was. That was what it meant for her to be a self-sufficient woman:  one who not only had a self-secured career, but one who also had total control over her body. And right now, she was going to do the deed herself.

She slipped her fingers over the smooth fabric as she began to tense in anticipation, and pushed her panties aside as she became more and more impatient, rubbing her clit directly now and slipping a finger or two inside her pussy. Her toes curled painfully inside her pumps, and Hermione gasped at the delightful sensation of a building orgasm as she imagined Zabini eating her out with that obscene mouth of his. It felt so good, she could let out a moan, and she was thankful now that he had forced her to lock the door behind him. If only she had placed a silencing charm on the door too.

There was suddenly another knock at her door then. Hermione quickly clasped her legs together under the desk and pushed her skirt down as far as possible, fully expecting Kingsley to finally drop by and ask about her report. She flicked her wand to unlock the door from her desk.

Instead of the Minister though, it was another familiar face, one that she was surprised to see.

“Why was your door locked?”

“Oh, uh … Hello, Harry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah. Toying with the idea of Hermione/Blaise/Draco. Yay, or nay? Leave comments and kudos please x
> 
> Next Chapter: A Friend In Need.


	3. A Friend In Need

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahaha thank you for the comments, lovelies x Some yays, some nays, so to strike a compromise, will go with nay for now, but somewhere down the line. Definitely have a good storyline for the Slytherin boys too ;) Now let's get back to Harry and Hermione, shall we?

Harry Potter walked into Hermione’s office, looking pale and haggard, almost like he was haunted. Hermione hadn’t seen him looking so troubled since Ginny went into labour with James.

She quickly muttered a cleaning spell under her breath and got up from her chair.

“What happened?”

He didn’t look like he was listening. Harry turned around briefly to check outside, as if worried that someone had seen him, and then turned around again to close the door behind him hastily. He even locked it.

It was only then that she noticed the envelop in his hand. _It’s shaking,_ she thought at first—unexpected animate objects were common around here, especially moving, screaming angry letters—except this wasn’t a howler.

It was his hand.

Hermione frowned in concern.

“Harry … speak to me.”

“I don’t know what this is,” he answered quickly, tripping on his words as he handed her the envelope. “I don’t know who sent them. I’ve been holding on to them for the last couple days, but they didn’t show up on the Prophet, so I—”

“Wow wow, Harry, take it slow. I’m having a hard time understanding. Start from the beginning, okay?”

Harry went still at her words. He got so self-conscious whenever he was having a temper, or freaking out. Having been his friend for so long, Hermione of course noticed that this had to do with how he had been mistreated during his childhood. Harry never learned how to have a healthy outlet, but he tried. He was trying now.

She took the letter from him and placed it on her desk for the moment.

“It’s alright,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around him. “Whatever it is, we will solve it. We always do.”

Harry returned the affection thankfully by holding her closer. He nodded into her soft hair, breathing in the smell of fresh apples. It was calming, just as he had remembered it to be, all those years they’ve been friends. And he smiled. She never changed her shampoo, after all this time.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I got so worked up just there.”

She shook her head, smiling as she moved away a bit to see his face. He gave a small lopsided smile, and she saw the stubble on his chin, even though it was still early morning. Harry must’ve missed a spot. She giggled.

_Gods, we’ve both gotten older._

“Let’s take a look,” she said, turning to the envelope now. Harry’s eyes followed hers, and quickly frowned when he noticed the Daily Prophet next to it. He immediately felt horrible.

“Hermione, this will remind you—God, this is shit.”

He sank into the seat in front of her desk, looking so upset again. She gave him a concerned pat on the back before reaching for the letter, but said nothing more.

Hermione was at a lost, really. It’s been so long since he had come to her for anything that he had issues with. There was his wife for that, and he’s been so busy after his promotion to Depute Chief Auror, especially since his first child was born. Apparently this wasn’t something Ginny could solve. Hermione didn’t know what could be that wrong, and it was worrying.

She scowled momentarily, as the blissfully drunk faces of Ronald Weasley and his new beau in the the Prophet’s cover page came into sight again. They were at some elite charity event, apparently. Boy certainly seemed to enjoy his involvement with the rich cow, and the Prophet was surely running out of things to write about.

_At least the world is a peaceful place these days._

“What’s in here?” she asked finally with a sigh, dreading it somehow as she removed the contents of the mysterious envelope.

As soon as they fell out, she raised her eyebrows at the photos within.

“Huh.”

Nobody could mistake that fiery head of red hair. Ginny Potter stood near a bench in what looked like a park. Little James was hidden away in his pram, Hermione was sure, as the gorgeous red-head seemed to be sorting out his tiny blankets within. What caught her eye though, was the man next to her, laughing. Dean Thomas, her ex from all the way back in their fifth year at Hogwarts.

That was strange. Hermione hadn’t heard about Dean in a while, and she certainly hadn’t heard about him from Ginny. Were they even on speaking terms still?

“Well, they look like they’re just having a nice chat,” she began to say, until she paused at the next picture.

Ginny was now sitting next to Dean, looking away from the camera still, but his face said a lot. The tall and slim young man looked down at her affectionately, with an arm on the backrest behind her. Ginny had leaned into his ear side, like she was telling him a secret. They looked like a young couple taking a walk with their child.

“Is she cheating on me?” Harry asked, finally choking out the words he’s been dreading to say out loud.

Hermione blinked. She paused to think before shaking her head.

“No. Not as far as I know ... ”

“Then what is this?” he exclaimed, “I know she’s been mad that I’m not spending enough time with her and James, but GOD, she knows what I do! This job—”

Hermione tuned his angry rant out for a moment, trying to stay level-headed to scrutinize the photos properly.

To be truthful, she was upset too, not because she believed that Ginny was cheating, but rather because the photos reminded her _so_ much of the photos that were still discarded in the bottom drawer of her office desk. But that was her problem, not Harry’s. Nobody knew about them.

“These photos ... They’re not conclusive,” she continued to analyse, her logical mind in hyperdrive. “If this was some kind of anonymous tip from the Prophet, they’re just messing with you.” She sat back into her seat, too, putting as much distance as possible between her and the photos. She realised he was doing the same, but he didn’t look convinced.

“These have no journalistic value, Harry,” she pressed her point. “The only thing they are doing is making you doubt her.”

Harry wasn’t dumb enough to ask why they would do that. The tabloids enjoyed messing with his life. His privacy and happiness didn’t make them money. They needed drama, and this was a perfect way to get it. Hermione knew it just as well. The assholes had played a major role in ruining hers.

She watched as her friend finally seemed to let that thought sink in.

“She did tell me a while ago that she bumped into him,” he muttered absentmindedly. “… She didn’t sound so excited about it at the time though.”

Hermione chuckled then.

“Maybe she thought you’d be jealous.”

Harry groaned and shook his head. He wasn’t going to say that he was already.

“I do trust her still,” he said after a while, but only under his breath.

She smiled sadly. She’d said those exact words, about a year ago now. She only hoped Harry didn’t have to come to the same conclusion as she did. Hermione couldn’t imagine Ginny cheating on him, but did she imagine Ron would either? She didn’t, and now she was as jaded about commitments as one can be.

She made a spontaneous decision then. Standing up, she opened the bottom drawer, and bent down to fish around for the offending folder, which she hadn’t seen in months.

“What are you doing,” Harry asked, leaning towards her side of the desk. He was less deflated now, but still really stressed. He had been so distracted by the photos for the last few days, Hermione rummaging through her documents was reminding him that he had to get back to the Auror’s Office soon, to catch up on his slack. His eyes widened, though, when he noticed how Hermione’s skirt was hiked up just a little higher than it normally would’ve been, and suddenly he was blushing from the sight of her nice, round bum.

_God, she looks good._

Hermione finally found it. A tattered paper folder with a thick stack of photos within. Some of them torn, some crumpled, from the many times that she had gone through them when she was too angry to look away and move on. She hadn’t touched them in maybe over ten weeks. It was a good sign.

“It’s time to let go,” she said, throwing the folder onto the desk and slamming her drawer shut. Harry straightened up immediately, hoping she hadn’t noticed him staring at her ass.

She put her waste basket on the table as well, cast a fire repellent spell on it, and quickly threw in the raunchy, disgusting photos that she had received all those months ago, on the night before the news of Ron cheating on her had appeared all over the front page of the Daily Prophet.

She dropped the day’s newspaper in the bin too, for good measure, and motioned for Harry to do the same. “Come on, we don’t need these.”

He hesitated, but they both knew he wasn’t going to ask Ginny, not with the photos. And Hermione was right. If they’re not on the Prophet already, it was because they weren’t worth the fuss. Not yet at least.

“To hell with it.”

Hermione agreed.

“Together,” she said.

Harry nodded, pulling out his wand too. They both pointed at the waste bin.

“ _Incendio!”_

They said the incantation at the same time, and their respective blackmail/anonymous tip/whatever-they-were went up in flames. It was satisfying as hell.

#

“Molly, can I help you with anything else?”

“Yes, dear,” the Weasley matriarch responded over her delicious smelling concoction on the stove. “Can you check on the baked goods for me? Fleur, dear, will you get the cutlery out too, thank you.”

Hermione hummed happily as she bent down to check the progress of the cookies, the pecan pies, and Molly’s signature pumpkin bread. They were so moist and addictive.

“Mama, can James eat the cookies too?” Dominique asked, crouching down next to Hermione to peek into the oven as well, with the curiosity of a precocious 3-year-old.

“No, ma cherie, no,” Fleur said, “Not until he has all his teeth.”

Baby James came into this world in September last year, just two weeks before Hermione’s 24th birthday, and today was his first birthday party. He was a gorgeous child, but also a cheeky handful, and totally incapable of sleeping for more than several hours at a time. Ginny couldn’t stop gushing and complaining about him, really. It reminded Hermione of Harry’s visit to her office the other day, and she wondered how busy it really would be to have a child. She frowned, remembering Ron then, and shook the thought out of her mind before she could continue down that dark, depressing path.

“Can I have one now? Two? Three?” Dominique continued to ask, as Hermione pulled out the freshly baked goodies. They smelled wonderful as always.

“No,” Fleur continued to say with patience. “You can only have two. After dinner.”

“Mama!”

“And you too, Victoire,” the quarter veela added to her elder child, who was giggling at her sister’s misfortune from the table.

“Nooooooooooo!”

“Let the little girls live, flower,” George Weasley said, as he sauntered into the kitchen with handfuls of candies from the Weasley’s Wizarding Wheeze collection. Dominique and Victoire squealed in delight and began to fight over their favorites. Fleur cursed in French as she dropped what she was doing to get her daughters to stop.

“And ooh, that is a delectable ass you got there.”

It took Hermione a moment to realise that George was talking about her backside. She shot up red-faced and turned around so fast.

“Excuse me?”

“GEORGE WEASLEY, HOW _DARE_ YOU!” Molly was having none of this nonsense, certainly not in the middle of her busy cooking. She was spinning her spatula now at her remaining twin.

“Mum, _it was a joke!_ Just a joke! Besides, she’s single now, so what’s the problem?”

“Oh, and are you now?” Angelina said from the doorway, looking sassy and annoyed as hell.

George immediately changed his stance.

“Aw babe, don’t be mad.”

Hermione shook her head with a small laugh as she went back to helping with decorating the cookies. The Burrow sure was rowdy as usual.

“I’m sorry, darling,” Molly said, as soon as George and Angelina had left the room to go make up and make out somewhere. “I hope my foolish son didn’t upset you.”

“It’s alright,” Hermione chuckled. It was kind of nice really, to hear that he thought highly of her ass. She did choose one of her more form fitting skirts today. It enhanced her curves.

The elder Weasley eyed her with a smile. It was good to see the girl with her self-confidence again.

“Thank you for coming today, my child.”

At those tender words, Hermione suddenly got teary. She remembered how she had felt when she realised that the divorce was inevitable.

“Thank _you_ for having me,” she whispered back.

Molly turned around to give her a tight hug. “I hope you will let me organise your birthday party in two weeks, too.”

Hermione sniffled and laughed at that, squeezing her former mother-in-law even tighter. She hadn’t been sure if she would be invited to the party, now that she was no longer technically part of the family, but Molly’s owl to her earlier that week had made sure that she wouldn’t think otherwise.

“You will be helping me in the kitchen as originally planned, do I make myself clear?” she had said.

It was so nice to feel included.

#

“Why have you not changed your surname yet?”

Hermione paused. She had just put a slice of pecan pie in her mouth, when the woman she had dreaded to speak to most suddenly commented from across the dinner table. She was hoping they would get through dessert without a hitch, but here they were.

Everyone in The Burrow turned to Pansy Parkinson, most of them scowling, except for Ron, really, who looked rather uncomfortable and apologetic. They then all turned to Hermione, evidently interested in her answer.

She swallowed slowly and cleared her throat. “I am still considering it,” she said, giving her most noncommittal answer.

“Ha!” Pansy laughed loudly at that, wrapping her hands tightly around Ron’s arm and pulling it towards her chest, as if to make the point.

“It’s already been, what, four months? Does it help your career so much to have a pure-blood name attached to you?”

The table gasped in horror. Hermione was starting to see red, and Ron looked so pale he could faint. Baby James mewled at his mom, who took the opportunity then to made an exaggerated gesture to clear the table.

“It’s bed time, isn’t it, honey?” Ginny exclaimed nervously, picking up her crying son. “Oh Molly, Dean, will you give me a hand? I need his bottle and nappies.”

Harry made a gesture to get up, too, but she gave him a strict look to stay. This situation could get messy without him.

He sat back down reluctantly as he watched Dean Thomas help his wife up the stairs, grabbing nappies from the bathroom as he went. It was a relief that Ginny had finally decided to tell him about her recently rekindled friendship with her ex, one that she insisted was entirely platonic, but it was still not easy for Harry, after having seen those photos.

The matriarch stood up, too, sweating profusely as she came out of her disbelieving trance. Pansy had gone _way_ out of line. Before she went into the kitchen to retrieve James’ milk bottle though, she gathered up her wits to walk over to Ron’s audacious girlfriend.

“Pansy … will you please help with the cleaning in the kitchen?”

She was barely able to keep the irritation out of her voice, but she had promised Ron she would try, and she was trying.

“How about Granger-Weasley here,” the Slytherin scowled in response, though she did get up from her seat and made a gesture to stack up the dirty plates.

“ _Hermione_ helped already earlier. Now please.”

The Weasleys all stood up at once, too, even though not everyone had finished their dessert. All except for Ron, who stuck firmly in his seat like he had been immobilised. The ice cream on what remained of his pie was forming a pool of sugary goop on his plate. And he looked mortified, but also had a strange look on his face, like he wanted to know, too. Hermione didn’t move from her spot either.

Why was she still Granger-Weasley?

Hermione didn’t really have a good answer to that. She’d kept the name at first because of inertia and grief. She then kept it for longer because, for a moment, it had seemed too cumbersome to change her name on all her legal documents, again. She’d forgotten about it lately, to be honest. Most people she worked with called her Hermione anyway. 

After a long awkward silence, she sighed and stood from the table. The tension was unbearable.

“Hermione,” Ron called, finally finding his voice. He stood up too, following her into the sparsely occupied living room. Most of their friends and family were in the kitchen, or upstairs.

“Were you the one who wanted to know?” she asked before he could continue. It came out so angry. She’d kept it together earlier because she didn’t want to cause a scene and ruin the party, but now that he was addressing her directly, she couldn’t help herself.

Ron blushed deeply. “I didn’t expect her to ask, I swear.”

She hated the way he avoided the question. She could already see him, whining to Pansy about her keeping his name, even though she had been the one who broke it off with him. Never mind that he had cheated on her. Never mind that he was now dating the woman that he had cheated on her _with_. Never mind either that she had swallowed all of that humiliation down, as the family had decided to respect his wishes. Never mind all that.

“So you want me to change my name,” she spat. It wasn’t really a question.

“No, I—”

“It’s my decision to make, Ronald. As with everything else related to me.”

She could see that her words stung, but she couldn’t help it. _What was it about it being time to let go again?_ He still clearly messed with her head, even now.

Ron looked like he needed to punch a wall then. His anger was palpable, and he had gone from chalk white to bright red.

“You made that very clear,” he finally said through gritted teeth, “when you made me sign those papers.”

Hermione’s blood pressure went up a notch. “Made? _Made?_ ”

But Ron had gone upstairs before she could berate him, surely to go sulk in his old bedroom, as he had in the past.

How dare he.

After everything.

_How dare he!_

Hermione stormed out into the garden. She then remembered that the Burrow’s perimeter was guarded by an anti-apparition ward, and ran back in to use the chimney. She had to get out of here. Now. The tears were about to burst out.

“Wow, wow, Hermione.”

Strong hands grasped onto her arms as she blasted through the front door again. Harry had followed her, but now that she had run straight back into his chest, he ushered her out once more into the outdoors and closed the door behind him.

“How dare he,” she whimpered into his arms. “And that … that wench!”

Harry soothed her, as she had done for him only a few days ago. “I’m sorry. That was awful,” he said softly. “You didn’t deserve that.”

Hermione nodded, and squeezed him harder as she had a good cry. She knew that the Weasley family had no ill will towards her about a silly name change, but Harry was the only one she knew would understand. She wanted so badly to belong here, but she felt like an intruder without Ron’s support. It was unbearable.

#

“I’ll go talk to him,” Hermione said. She finally calmed herself enough to go back inside. “Calmly, this time.”

Harry laughed softly as he followed her up the stairs. “You do seem to rile each other up without trying.”

She chuckled. It was true.

“I’m sure he will appreciate it,” Harry said, patting her on the back.

She smiled, but froze when they reached the top of the Burrow’s zigzagging staircase. Harry’s face went pale too. The sound of wood creaking coming from within Ron’s old bedroom was undeniable. Hermione wanted to gag.

“OH, YES! YES! MMMMMMM YES!”

She turned away before she threw up her dinner.

Harry raced after her down the stairs. “Hermione—”

“I’m going home. I’m sorry, please apologise to Ginny, too. And Molly, and Arthur. Oh God.” She went straight for the fireplace this time. She should’ve left earlier. Should have never come. God, she was disgusted, yes, but why, oh why, oh _why_ was she still so fucking _hurt_?

“Hermione,” Harry called again, grabbing her arm now as he caught up.

She looked away, refusing to budge. “Let me go, please.”

“I will. I just—” he faltered, his grip loosening on her arm.

She stopped at the fireplace, waiting for what he had to say, even though she refused to face him still. Hermione didn't feel like discussing how humiliated she felt already. 

“Can I come and check in on you? Later?” he asked finally.

She felt as if she might tear up again. Merlin, she’d be an awful mess surely, and she wasn't sure if she wanted him to be there for that, but she also didn’t want to be alone. Going out tonight to look for a distraction with all these emotions bubbling inside her wasn’t an option.

“Maybe,” she answered vaguely.

It was good enough for Harry for now. He handed her the floo powder jar then. “I’ll call,” he promised.

She nodded wordlessly as she took a handful of the green powder.

“Thank you, Harry,” she said, at the last moment.

He smiled.

And she was gone.

#

“I hate her,” Ginny said. She left Dean to tend to her sleeping baby for a moment to speak to Harry alone.

“I know, I’m … not exactly happy about it either,” Harry commiserated. “That doesn’t mean he and Hermione are meant for each other.”

Ginny glared at him like he didn’t know what he was talking about. “Of course they are,” she snapped, “Where is she? They need to talk.” Of all the Weasleys, she was the one holding out for them the most, still.

Harry hesitated before telling her that Hermione had already left.

“And you let her go?” Ginny’s voice cracked in frustration.

Harry really had never been very good at assisting negotiations. She’d seen it so many times. Her brother and Hermione fighting. Harry just sitting there between them, refusing to take sides or even initiating a conversation for them. No, he just waited until they spoke again. Always.

“She wanted to,” Harry explained, starting to get frustrated that she was blaming it on him. He knew how she felt about his non-interference policy with Ron and Hermione.

“You don’t know that,” Ginny berated. Harry felt the anger rise.

“Look, love, we can’t force them back together. What they decide to do is up to them. All we can do is support their decisions.”

“Right, like we are supporting Ron’s decision to date that skank.”

Someone whimpered from above. They looked up the staircase to catch a glimpse of Pansy running back up to Ron’s room.

“That was uncalled for,” Ron said angrily. He had also been standing at the top of the stairs. Apparently Ginny and Harry weren’t being very discreet with their arguing.

Ginny narrowed her eyes at her brother’s naked torso. There were countless bruises on his neck and chest, and he was only in his boxers.

“That’s disgusting, Ronald,” she said, making a gagging sound as she went back into her room. James was crying again.

Ron looked down at himself and groaned. He hadn’t intended to announce to the world that he had just had angry sex with his girlfriend.

“You should talk to Hermione later, Ron,” Harry said stiffly. He didn’t want to take sides, but he too thought it was rather tasteless of them to get it on while his ex spouse was still in the house.

Ron looked angry for a brief second. He did nod in the end though. It wasn’t right to leave things the way it was with Hermione.

“And apologise to Pansy for us,” Harry added, a little hesitantly.

Ron nodded again. “It’s alright … she understands.”

Harry looked doubtful, to which Ron responded with scorn.

“She knows she’s not welcome here, Harry. Might be vindictive sometimes, but she’s not blind.”

It was a pleasant surprise, to hear Ron being understanding of someone’s flaws for once.

Saying good night, Harry opened the door back into Ginny’s room. James was fast asleep again, but it was the two adults in the room that caught his attention. Ginny and Dean moved away from each other so fast, but it was too late. Harry had seen the way he had an arm over her shoulders, his lips just leaving her cheek, to which, to Harry’s disgust, she had reacted not with anger, but a smile.

It was more than he could take.

“Wait, Harry!”

He grabbed a broomstick as he stormed pass the living room closet.

“Wait!”

He didn’t stop. As soon as he was outside, he mounted and kicked off, flying into the night in a fit of blind rage.

#

Hermione didn’t expect him to show up at her door. She’d closed her fireplace but had left the communications open, in case he did call, because she had decided she would be okay without his company tonight, but when she opened her front door because of the sound of something collapsing against it, and the smell of smoke, she didn’t think Harry would be sitting right there, on her doorstep, broomstick in one hand, a dying cigarette in the other.

“You … flew here?” she asked, sounding stunned.

Harry sat there with his back to her in silence, unmoving.

“Harry, what’s wrong.”

He slowly turned to her. It took her a moment to see the dried trails of tears on his cheeks. Her eyes went wide, and she quickly put an arm around his waist without another word, helping him up and walking him into her apartment. He threw the cig on the pavement outside her door, stomping it out before going in.

She sat him down on the sofa and brought him a glass of water, which he gulped down thankfully. He hadn’t noticed how thirsty he’d become while flying here.

“Harry, what on earth happened?” she sat down next to him. “Why are you … crying?”

He didn’t answer, but instead wrapped his arms around her shoulders, holding her close. She knew he was sobbing now, however quiet he tried to be. She wrapped hers around his waist too.

“She was smiling,” he finally said.

The coldness in his voice scared her.

Harry pulled away to say it again.

“He kissed her, and she was smiling.”

There were tears in his eyes. Hermione didn’t know what to say to that, but there were tears in hers too. They were both so hurt and angry tonight. She didn’t know what she expected for herself, really. She did expect better. She wanted things to be better. For her. For both of them.

Harry sniffed, wiping the tears away. “Got anything to drink?” he laughed bitterly.

Hermione laughed, too.

“I have _just_ the right thing for the occasion.”

She pulled out a vintage bottle of Fire Whiskey, one which Ron had gifted her last year, on her birthday. It used up a lot of his savings, she was sure, but she never opened the bottle. Not when she found he had cheated on her just a week later.

Three glasses in, and the two were talking about how fulfilled or not they had been in their respective relationships with the Weasley siblings. Harry talked about how magical it was when James was born, Hermione about how happy she was on her wedding day. Their thoughts went further back, and Harry wondered if he and Ginny would’ve ever gotten together if he hadn’t tripped over her in his invisibility cloak back in their fifth year, which caused her and Dean to fight, sealing their fate of breaking up. He’d never told anyone about that. Hermione recalled how angry she was, when Ron had left them in the tent, during their hunt for the Deathly Hallows.

“Maybe I should’ve left it at that, back then. Maybe I shouldn’t have let him back into my heart, and just stayed friends.”

She downed the last drop in her glass. Harry reached for more.

“That was a really dark time …” he said, reminiscing about it too. Wearing the damned horocrux on their necks in turns. They were insane, desperate.

Hermione nodded. It was awful.

“We had that one night though,” she said with a chuckle.

Harry perked up from his drunk stupor. “Which one?”

She glanced at him with hooded eyes. It felt like she was floating. It felt good.

“The night we danced,” she said.

Harry remembered and smiled.

“Yeah, that was fun.” He trailed off, laughing, like he was thinking about something.

“What is it?” She was curious.

“Nah.”

“Come oooooon.”

She pretended to tickle him, so he quickly called truce.

“Alright, alright! Just don’t … kill me for saying this.”

She nudged him to go on, sure that he couldn’t offend her.

“I just … I wondered what it would’ve been like, if we had kissed back then.”

She raised an eyebrow, but instead of being angry, she looked tongue-in-cheek, just like he was.

“You wanted to kiss me?”

He nodded, gaining courage from the whiskey.

She chuckled then, sitting back into the couch, looking rather cheeky.

“But you see me as a friend, right?”

“I do … ” Harry fumbled through his answer.

“I don’t know how to explain it. It just felt … right.”

But he didn’t.

And she knew why he didn’t - Ron.

Hermione thought back to that evening. Their dancing, their laughter, and them staring into each other’s eyes as the music died down. She had felt it too. And then the need to move away took over. The moment was gone.

“I wouldn’t have minded.”

Now it was Harry’s turn to be surprised.

“I mean, I see you as a friend too, Harry. I just mean that I’m comfortable enough with you to think that I might have liked it. Like, it would’ve been nice, you know. It would’ve felt good. We were … We needed each other.”

She was sure that Harry understood too. He had badly wanted warmth, and her company was all he thought he needed, but he was also so deeply lonely inside. He wanted to hold someone, and not just anyone. Someone he trusted. Someone who knew him inside out. Someone he was comfortable with. He felt that way now.

“Do you feel the same way now?” he asked. His voice was suddenly raspy. Harry was nervous. He leaned back into the coffee table and rolled his shoulders, as if to stretch out a strained muscle.

He almost wished she didn’t understand, but she read his mind like a book. Why wouldn’t she? They’ve been friends forever, and now with their confession, she knew exactly what was going through his mind on a night like this.

Harry looked so uncertain, but she made the decision for him this time. She wasn’t going to chicken out again. Not when the signs were so clear. Not when she could see the yearning in his eyes.

She moved off the couch to join him on the floor.

“Hermio—”

She pressed her lips onto his before he could finish saying her name. They tasted just like hers, heavy with the taste of deliciously rich fire whiskey. And something more, a hint of tobacco. Merlin, it felt good.

Harry started out slow, hesitant, and exploring, but as soon as she began to nip at his lips, sucking and pulling sensually, he lost all the last vestiges of inhibitions he had. He kissed her back with enthusiasm, and smiled when he felt her smile against his lips, too.

It did feel good.

Minutes later, they were stripped down to their underwear, fondling each other over the thin fabrics, giggling and laughing about the thrilling experience of exploring each other’s body. His hands ran over her full mounds, flicking at her already hard nipples, admiring her soft skin. He squeezed, he teased. And her hands ran up and down his hard torso, his nice looking abs, and eventually to the growing member between his legs.

Harry let out a soft moan into her lips as she squeezed his cock over his boxers. They hadn’t stopped kissing since they started. He slipped his hand into her panties then, finding the spot that was gushing with wetness, and rubbed her senseless.

Hermione hummed loudly against his lips at the growing burning sensation that felt so good at her core. She gyrated her hips against his hand to show him how much she loved it, and he responded with pleasure, adding another digit into her pussy as she whined for more. As he pumped inside her, feeling her clenching walls, he moved his tongue against her lips, and fought with her tongue for a while, before she finally yielded with a giggle, letting him explore inside her mouth. He entered eagerly, and she sucked on his tongue, which was incredibly, incredibly arousing.

He wanted more.

Putting his hands on her waist, he picked her up, ready to take her to the bedroom. She tried to jump onto his waist too, but with how uncoordinated they were under the influence of alcohol, they ended up fumbling and falling onto the couch, still tangled up with each other while laughing their heads off.

“Kiss me again,” he said, as she rolled on top of him, with one leg on each side of his hip. The yearning for more was still there in his eyes, and she smiled, yielding to his wish. He held those sexy hips that he had been wondering about since he was in her office days ago, and pressed them against his own. They gyrated against each other desperately, fabric rubbing against fabric. As the tension built to new extremes, she released his now swollen lips and sat up to let out an uninhibited sensual moan. _Gods, she is beautiful._

It felt good. It felt safe. It felt so comfortable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: Is A Friend Indeed


	4. Is A Friend Indeed

When it became clear that she wouldn’t be able to chase after Harry, Ginny stormed back up the stairs to her room. Dean Thomas was still sitting there, just where she had left him.

“Get out.”

“Gin…”

 _“I said get out!”_ she whispered angrily, pointing at her door.

Speechless, Dean glanced at the birthday boy, who somehow didn't wake again through all the noise. Ginny looked down at her baby too, and saw that he was clutching onto Dean’s much larger hand, just as he had been, before he had fallen asleep. She wanted to cry, but didn’t stop pointing at the door.

Seeing her determination, Dean sighed. He had so much to say to her, but this wasn’t the appropriate time, definitely not when she was in hysterics. He remembered that much from dating her.

Gently removing James’ hand from his forefinger, he stood up and gathered his things, just as she had wished.

Ginny sighed in relief finally, and wrapped her arms around herself. She didn’t expect Dean to decide that he would say one last thing before he left.

“I didn’t mean any harm,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

The door closed behind him.

Ginny couldn’t stop a sob from escaping her lips.

_How did this go so wrong?_

#

Harry opened his eyes. He felt a slight hangover, but nothing crippling. The sky was only starting to light up, so he had plenty of time before work. Rolling to his side, he wrapped an arm around Ginny, and pulled her close.

 _How strange,_ he thought, as he closed his eyes again _._ He could’ve sworn that he hadn’t gone home.

Her hair smelled different though.

It smelled nostalgic.

Like fresh apples.

Like Hermione.

He blinked, opening his eyes again. They finally came into focus, and he realised that ‘Ginny’ didn’t have the bright red hair that he was used to waking up next to. Instead, she had curly brown hair, like the woman he had fantasised about at various moments in his life. Like the woman who had been with him through thick and thin. Like the woman he had finally kissed and caressed last night.

It was sublime.

He held her closer then.

_This has to be a dream._

She stirred, squeezing him back now. It felt so real. He looked down at her beautifully peaceful face.

_She’s really here._

“Hermione,” he whispered gingerly, afraid that if he moved too much, she would disappear.

Hermione opened her eyes, blinking slowly, like she wasn’t quite fully awake. He saw how she, too, looked momentarily surprised when she met his gaze.

He hoped to God that the fire whiskey didn’t do a number on her.

He hoped to God that she remembered.

For a split second there, he was sure that she would be mad, but, instead, she pulled herself up just a little, and gave him the sweetest of smiles he’d ever seen.

“Morning, Harry,” she purred.

In that moment, he was certain that he would never understand why Ron had gone and ruined it with her. How could you, when this was how it was like to wake up next to her?

She then surprised him more by placing a hand on his bare chest and nudging her face into his. Harry inhaled sharply.

Her lips were so soft.

She tasted so good.

_God._

Her kisses sober were just as delicious as they were when they were drunk.

As she pulled away, he saw the satiated, coquettish grin on her lips, and he felt his cock twitch under the blankets. _Fucking hell, Hermione._

“... Morning,” he responded finally, his throat now a little dry. His heart was pounding in his ears, and he was suddenly out of breath.

Only then did she realise that something was off. The smile on her face disappeared.

“Do you not remember last night?”

_Maybe the alcohol was a mistake._

She was suddenly self-conscious.

“I do!” Harry immediately answered this time. “I’m just …” he tried to search for the right words. Where were words when he needed them? “I’m just a little … disoriented.”

She nodded tentatively, still looking unsure. Looking down at herself, she noticed that she still had her panties on. The memory slowly came back to her.

“You were hesitant last night,” she said, referring to how he had stopped going any further. At some point, they had made their way into bed and fallen asleep. It wasn’t that she necessarily wanted to go all the way. She just wanted to understand him.

Harry blushed, as he, too, remembered the moment he decided he would not go that far.

“I … wasn’t sure if you … wanted to,” he spoke haltingly. She blinked, seemingly surprised by his decency.

“I didn’t want you to think of me as a creep, you know … using you under the influence or something like that.”

“ _Were_ you using me?” she asked pointedly then, not giving him a moment to pause.

His answer was a firm ‘No.” That he liked this. That he liked that he had found comfort in her, and she in him. It felt right. It felt good.

But she wasn’t done asking.

“And did you want to have sex with me?”

Harry looked as if to say something to that, but settled for a nod instead.

“And now?”

He swallowed hard. Her bluntness was an incredible turn on.

“Yes,” he heard his own shaky voice say.

As if satisfied by his answer, Hermione nodded a few times, before giving him that coy smile again. He felt his cock twitch again.

“Then you have nothing to worry about," she said, as she rolled onto her belly and sat up, "because I do too.”

Harry’s jaw dropped. He wasn’t expecting that. He wasn't sure why, but he just wasn't. And then, when she moved the sheets away from his torso, revealing the tent that was forming in his boxers, Harry couldn't help but blush. She was looking at _it_ with such curious intrigue.

Hermione wasn't shy to touch him again either. She ran a finger up and down his shaft over the thin fabric. His breathing quickened, and he ran his tongue along his lips, as he watched her pull his boxers down, leaving his well endowed dick standing in full attention. All her questioning had aroused him mercilessly.

“Fuck …” Hermione whispered under her breath.

Harry raised an amused eyebrow at that. He had never heard her swear before.

Looking up to meet her gaze, he saw that the coyness was now all gone from her eyes, replaced by a dark lustfulness that made him hungry for her.

 _God,_ she _is hungry for_ me. It blew his mind.

Shifting a little, Hermione pulled her panties off and crawled on top of him in one smooth movement, as she had the night before on the couch, except now her dripping wetness was pressing up against him directly.

He groaned at the contact, and groaned even louder when she began to move against him, spreading her juices all over his dick, and some more, as she gained friction where it counted. Hermione let out a satisfied moan, and Harry’s eyelids began to fall, as they both revelled in the incredible sounds and sensations of her clit and pussy rubbing against his now painfully erect penis.

As Hermione began to feel an orgasm slowly building, she moved to grab his erection, and pressed its tip against her opening. Harry hissed when she rubbed herself over the head, teasing him, and he soon opened his eyes, just in time to see his cock disappear inside her tight, soaked pussy.

“Fuck,” he let slip this time.

It was better than he had ever imagined it would be.

Hermione let out a content sigh too as she began to bob her ass up and down, taking pleasure in the way his dick stretched her out each time she ground into him. Itching for more, she reached a hand down to her nub and began rubbing herself too. The combined sensation was beyond amazing, and she let out another satisfied sound.

_Fuck, this is good._

She looked down at him. He looked sexy as fuck with his eyes hooded and his hands on her hips, just lying back in bed like that, watching her do her thing.

She was fucking Harry, she realised.

_I really am fucking him._

Harry could scarcely believe his eyes too. The girl that he had thought was absolutely off limits for most of his life was now rocking her hips against his cock, all the while playing with herself and humming in pleasure. The sex appeal was off the roof. Whatever Ron had ever complained to him in private about Hermione’s frigidness in bed, Harry now knew was complete bullshit.

This was Hermione Granger, in all her wanton glory, and he loved that he was allowed to see her like this.

As her pace increased, her breathing became ragged and uneven. He felt her beginning to tense above him, and the beast in him suddenly began to stir. Harry grabbed onto her ass forcefully and rolled her down onto the bed. He would be on top now. Pulling her legs up, he angled himself to gain as much control over the depth of his thrusting as he can. Hermione let out a little yelp.

“Harry, _oh god._ ”

He pounded into her, hard, and his hard erection pushed up against a spot that was so pleasingly addictive, she tried to wriggle her hips into it more. Harry, noticing, responded by grinding into her again, before pulling out slowly, tantalisingly, and pounding into her over, and over, and over again. Hermione couldn't help but let out a lewd cry of joy.

“It’s so good … oh … so … good .. yes … yes … don’t … stop .. don’t stop, Harry, please … _please!_ Yes … yes … yes … _yes!_ ”

He was more virile than she had ever thought, and she loved it.

#

“Morning, Granger.”

Hermione felt a shadow hover over her, and quickly moved away before Blaise Zabini could wrap an arm around her.

“Oh, come on. How about a quick morning kiss?”

“I’m fine without, thank you,” she answered icily. He really was a hopeless philanderer. Walking pass him to get to the elevator, she made a cursory glance at the conference room that he had just come out from. “Finally had your meeting with Kingsley, I see.”

Blaise grinned. “You care about what I do?”

Her answer was choppy. “Not really.”

“Ouch,” he said, but it didn’t seem sincere. He was certainly not deterred, following her into the elevator as well. He stood so close to her, he was practically pressing her up against the wall. "So, have you considered my proposal?" he asked, leaning one arm against the wall next to her face. She wriggled out of his way, but he only moved closer.

"I think it’s more relevant now than ever. Level Five please.”

She groaned a little to herself and pressed the button to his desired destination, as well as hers, on Level Two. _Less emotions, less frustrations,_ she told herself, as she wriggled out of his way once more.

She cleared her throat.

“And how is an idiotic excuse for an idea of a  ménage à trois with you and your chum relevant in anyway what so ever?”

Welp, she definitely failed the less emotions part again.

Blaise’s Cheshire Cat grin grew a little more.

“I have heard through the grapevine … that you will be working with Draco real soon.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow at him.

“Kingsley,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

Blaise winked. “Let’s say a little birdie told me.”

Hermione shook her head. She supposed it wasn’t a secret, but it was a little irritating that Zabini of all people knew about it now.

The elevator stopped at Level Two, and she made to step off, but he pulled her back in at the last moment.

“Zabini, I _swear!_ ”

Aurors across the floor looked up to her angry cry. The elevator door closed, and then there was a loud crash, and sizzling smoke rolled out as the gates opened again to the floor that belonged to the Auror Office.

“Don’t worry. He’s not actually _that_ hurt.” Hermione spat, as she stepped out cooly and put her wand away.

The smoke cleared, and she walked towards the Deputy Chief’s office in a huff. Zabini stayed hunched over in a corner of the elevator, whining about his burnt suit and bruised toe. Too bad. She didn’t take kindly to his attempt to grab her ass and give her a goodbye kiss.

#

“Morning, Harry.”

Harry Potter looked up from his desk and smiled. “Didn’t expect to see you this morning,” he said, winking at her. Hermione chuckled. There was something enduring about the way he smiled, looking somewhat shy despite the flirtation.

“Funny,” she said with a lowered voice, closing the door behind her for a little privacy. “I was under the impression that I saw quite a lot of you this morning.”

Harry blushed beet red. “That you did,” he mumbled, looking down at his work once again. It almost made Hermione wonder if he was regretting it. She walked over to his desk and sat down across from him.

“I just thought ... I’d drop by and check in on you.”

She put her hand on the table, which, to her relief, Harry took in his with gentle affection. “Thank you,” he said sadly, casting his eyes.

His fight with Ginny when he got home that morning was quite a headache. It was nice to have someone to talk to it about. He released her hand and pulled out a cigarette. Hermione noticed that it was something that he was starting to do often these days out of habit, especially when he was stressed.

“So?" she asked, "What did she say?" She wondered if she sounded defensive for him. She certainly felt that way.

Harry took a drag in silence for a while, collecting his thoughts.

“She said she was really upset about Ron and Pansy,” he finally said, remembering how she'd broken down in front of him, begging for him to not misunderstand. “Dean was just comforting her, and he'd never done ... _that_ ... before. She said that she would speak to him about boundaries. Said not to worry, and that she was … sorry.”

It wasn’t a very satisfying excuse or apology, but at least it didn't sound like Ginny intended to get back with her ex. Hermione nodded as she listened, understanding that it was likely that the young mother found comfort in Dean during this rather stressful time of child-rearing. He had seemed very familiar with how to help her with James. What bothered her more was Dean’s murky motivations.

“What does he do these days?” she asked, wishing she'd asked at the birthday party, but she had been too busy avoiding her ex.

Harry tapped his cigarette in his mostly full ash tray before taking another drag. “He's an editor for the Prophet," he said with a gruff. Hermione didn't need to ask how he felt about it. Neither of them had a high opinion of the most popular newspaper in the wizarding world.

"And he’s helping her find a job, apparently," Harry added with a sigh. "In the Sports Column. You know how much she’s been wanting to get back to work.”

Hermione nodded. She also remembered how Ginny hadn't wanted to quit the Holyhead Harpies, when she found out that she was pregnant. Motherhood had been such a conflicting experience for her, especially as she had since not been able to return to the professional Quidditch world. A job that still involved her beloved sports in some form would certainly suit her. 

“I’m happy that he’s getting her a job interview. I really am." Harry squashed his cigarette. "I just … wish it isn’t _him._ ” Anyone but him.

Hermione took a deep breath. It was hard to see him upset like this, but she could also understand, to an extent, what Ginny was going through. It was hard to say what she could do for him. She reached across the desk for his hand again, which he took gratefully. They were intimate as they have been, maybe more so now than ever, but oddly, their amazing sex just that morning didn't feel contradictory with how they were talking so openly about his marital problems. Harry was, first and foremost, her closest friend. Everything else was a bonus. 

“What do _you_ want to do?” she asked.

They’ve been talking about only Ginny’s needs so far, which Harry only noticed then. He squeezed her hand, looking conflicted.

“I don't know," he said after a while. He really had no idea what he wanted to do with the Ginny-Dean situation, except that he didn't want to deny Ginny's first opportunity at employment since she'd quit her job 18 months ago. He thought about her sacrifice, and their child. Tears began to form in his eyes, but he quickly flicked them away.

"I guess ... I want to be a better father." Harry looked up to meet Hermione's tender gaze. Her eyes were filled with concern, and he suddenly felt anxious. “I hope I’m not being disrespectful to you, Hermione. After all, we just—”

She shushed him.

“I wasn’t talking about _my_ needs just now. Yours, Harry. First.”

She knew how horribly incapable he was of taking care of himself. Just like she had been in the past, especially during her marriage with Ron. He needed to learn to think about himself first. A small part of her was nagging her with a disturbing thought, a thought that would make her regret what happened between them, but Hermione suppressed it before she could think further. 

Harry hesitated, but continued when she insisted.

“Ginny has been saying that I’m not around enough for James, and I know that’s part of our problem. I thought I would provide best by … bringing in the income, especially since she’s not working right now, but the truth is—” He cast his eyes. The truth was that he was too busy saving the world, like he had been since he was 11 years old. Since he found out how his parents really died. Since he learned how so many had been willing to risk their lives for him. It had been the only way he knew how to repay them.

Hermione pulled her seat a little closer to the desk and stroked his hand, letting him know that she was still with him, even as his thoughts moved inwards. Harry noticed and looked up, smiling at her with some difficulty.

“I think I’ve been going about it all wrong," he whispered, as if he feared it would become true if he said it out loud. 

"I think what I really need to do … is to be the best father I can be. So I ... told Ginny that ... I would try to understand." 

Hermione breathed in quietly. She saw how self-conscious he was, aware of how his decision could be hurtful to her, but she couldn't say that she was surprised by any of it. Harry had such a horrible childhood, it would be contrary to everything that she knew about him if he didn't choose what was best for James. She could tell how he felt guilty about his decision, which wasn't necessary, not in her mind at least. 

“You know,” she said in a hushed tone. Harry squeezed her hand.

“I enjoyed last night … and this morning.” She smiled gently, squeezing him back. He smiled then. He enjoyed it too, very much.

“And I wasn’t expecting anything more than that,” she continued to explain, “Nothing more than what either of us would be comfortable with, at any given time.”

The thing was, she had learned so much last night. She had learned that Blaise Zabini’s suggestion for revenge sex was truly idiotic. There was no redemption in that, and the only reason she would go ahead with it was if it was purely for fun. No, she couldn’t imagine enjoying sex with his questionably misogynistic ass, and certainly not Draco Malfoy, who hated her guts.

Instead, last night, for the first time, she realised with Harry that it was possible to enjoy intimacy with someone she trusted, truly. And it was more vindicating than any other one night stand she has had to satisfy her needs and prove to herself that she had control.

“I’ve been looking for a sign, Harry,” she confessed, getting a little tearful now. “I don’t want to get into it too much, but I was starting to believe that it would not ever be possible to feel … safe during sex.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, concerned by the implications, but she shook her head.

He respected her privacy, and didn’t press her.

“But last night, and … this morning,” she looked into his eyes, pausing as the emotions overwhelmed her. Harry wiped away the tears on her cheeks, empathizing with her, even though he hadn't a clue what she'd been through. 

“I felt safe, Harry. I know now it’s possible. That’s what mattered to me.” 

She asked for a sign, and he showed her the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter. I really enjoy writing about Harry and Hermione's friendship. And for those of you holding out for some Blaise/Draco/Hermione, Blaise/Hermione, Draco/Hermione action, don't give up hope just yet! I do have something in mind, as you will see ;) 
> 
> Next Chapter: Lend You A Hand


	5. Lend You A Hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally a chapter for the Draco & Blaise fans! 
> 
> Trigger Warning: The second half of this chapter contains non-consensual sexual activity. Feel free to skip section bounded by the WARNING sign if you are uncomfortable. Now, without further ado.

There’s something eerie about returning to the place that you once thought you might die in. Hermione certainly never expected to step foot in the Malfoy Manor again. Yet, here she was, at the gates of the colossal Victorian mansion seven years later. Fate really has a strange way of making you face your worst fears sometimes.

Hermione touched up her hair and looked down to check that her long-sleeved shirt and pencil skirt were crease free. Yes, she looked professional and confident, even though her will of strength was on the verge of faltering. Nervous again, she checked the paperwork that she had brought, and rummaged in her bag until there was truly nothing left to check. Yes, everything she needed was there. Yes, she was ready. She had to be.

She rang the bell then.

The heavy gates moved after a prolonged silence. The double doors leading into the mansion within opened as well, and a familiar tall, blonde man came sauntering out the front door.

“Granger,” Draco Malfoy said.

For a moment there, she had thought that he was going for a handshake, but the former Death Eater only nodded curtly at her and moved aside to let her in. Hermione clutched onto her bag a little defensively and nodded back.

“It’s been a while, Malfoy,” she heard herself say. Her tone was willfully inscrutable, but the fact that she still hadn’t taken a step through the doors spoke for itself. Looking pass him into the manor, she felt the strong urge again to run. She didn’t want him to know that though. She wasn’t here to start a fight either.

When she finally walked in, Draco turned to walk along side her. It was strange, really, but he didn’t feel the urge to insult her for her apparent timidity. Hermione might have thought that she was being subtle, but working with the Dark Lord had made Draco more observant, more discreet. And for the first time in his life, Draco found himself intrigued by the muggle-born witch’s restrained body language, which stood in stark contrast to the disdainfully smart arse attitude that he had imprinted of her in his mind. He also noticed how small she was next to him.

How tiny she must have been, facing his sadistic aunt’s interrogation.

Draco wished he could forget that day.

She was right.  _It’s been a while._

As they walked deeper and deeper into his family mansion, he saw how she visibly withdrew into herself, and knew that she was thinking about that day too. He didn’t blame her. These haunted halls bore unspeakable memories of the dead, muggle-borns and pure-bloods alike. She could’ve been among them. The thought gave him the shivers, even though he didn’t remember ever giving two cents about Hermione Granger’s wellbeing. _“It wasn’t what I signed up for,”_ he wanted to say to her. But why? And what did he think he was signing up for in the first place?

Seven years later, they were both still fighting their demons. Today, however, was their first chance at gaining some resemblance of a closure. Draco was sure of it.

So he cleared his throat.

“Blood Equality Act, was it?”

Startled by his attempt to break the ice, Hermione turned to look at him. She noticed then that the proud prince of Slytherin wasn’t hunched over and terrified, like she had last remembered him during the war, but he wasn’t _quite_ as conceited as he used to be either. His polite inquisitiveness was rather curious. She didn’t remember him ever taking an interest in what she does.

_And here I thought Kingsley was being too optimistic about him._

“Yes,” she said, a little relieved that she could talk about work, and maybe momentarily forget where she was. “After the successful example of H.E.R.A., Kingsley and I determined that the political atmosphere is now ripe for fighting discrimination among wizarding folks too.”

Draco was doubtful of her optimism, but he didn’t want to push back too hard yet. He had his agenda too.

“The House Elf Rights Act, huh,” he mused on a more innocuous point. “Mother wasn’t so happy about that.”

Hermione flashed a grin, which Draco didn’t miss. He rolled his eyes.

“Your obsession with saving the world is beyond me, Granger.”

“You say it like it’s a bad thing to _try_.”She didn’t hide her irritation.

“I’m not being derisive,” he replied, chuckling lightly at how easily he was still able to annoy her. “Just … amused, really.”

That wasn’t exactly a compliment, but it was a nice change, coming from him.

They reached the end of a corridor, and both looked up at the large door in front of them. Hermione blanched, realising where they were.

_No._

She instinctively backed away.

“Granger.”

He surprised her by placing a hand on the small of her back, like it was the most natural thing to do. Like he was telling her that it was alright. When had he ever even _touched_ her? Bewildered and discombobulated, she backed into his hand further, and reached up unconsciously to her left forearm, where there was still a faded scar of the offensive racial slur that had been carved onto her skin. _Mudblood_ , it said. _Mudblood,_ they had called her.

“Granger.”

The way Draco said her name again brought her back to her senses. She didn’t miss how he glanced down at her arm, too. She let go of her sleeve then, lowering her arm to her side. Draco looked away. She realised that he was looking down at his own forearm, where the Dark Mark must still be visible, if not for his long-sleeved shirt.

 _God,_ she wanted to run.

“I assure you,” he whispered after a while, raising his eyes to search for hers. His voice was more steady and assertive than she had thought it would be. She met his gaze with uncertainty.

“She’s not here,” he reminded her.

Hermione quickly looked away, wishing he didn’t know what frightened her so. Sympathetic to her anxiety, Draco slowly opened the door to his family’s reading chamber, and guided her inside, with him. It took her a moment to realize that nothing was as she had remembered it.

The room used to be in tones of black and green, with thick curtains lining every wall. The chandeliers, which had almost crushed her and Bellatrix Lestrange, had been the only source of light, but now the walls were in tones of pale green and white, and the ceiling was replaced by a large skylight, letting in the blinding midday sun. 

Everything else was off too.

She looked for what had been the centre piece of the room: A long, black table, where the Death Eaters had convened during the war, and upon which she had been tortured. That was gone now. There wasn’t a single obvious Slytherin regalia in sight. Not to mention the lack of Malfoy family portraits. No ancestral pure-blooded elitist shouting obscenities at her lowly muggle-born existence. Instead, desks and divans clustered here and there across the room. Several bookshelves lined one of the walls, while large maps and framed ancient texts lined others.

It really was more like a _reading_ space now.

“Is this really ... the same room?”

She turned to Draco, who looked rather uncomfortable now. She looked around the room again, and noticed the significantly different taste in the interior design.

“This .. . was your idea?”

He blinked twice, surprised that she’d figured it out so easily.

“Well,” he said hesitantly, “I thought it would be distasteful to keep it the way it was ... "

Well, she could certainly understand that.

 "So ... after the chandeliers came down," he saw her wince very subtly, and felt the need to finish the sentence as quickly as possible. "I convinced my parents that it would be for the best.”

“Is it really though?” she couldn’t help but ask. “You know,” she said, turning to him again. “To just … erase its history like this?”

Perplexingly, he smiled at her then. Like he had expected her to ask. 

“We haven’t."

She didn’t understand, so he explained further. “They’re in storage, for now.”

“For now?”

He hesitated. This was a moment of truth for him. Draco took a deep breath.

“I’m … working on building a war memorial museum,” he confessed.

Hermione’s jaw dropped a little.

“And Blaise has been helping me—”

“Zabini?”

She cursed herself for not keeping the incredulity out of her voice. Draco predictably scowled at her reaction. “He’s a respectable curator. I hope you aren’t being biased because of his stance during the war. Kingsley was supportive too—”

“You misunderstand me, Malfoy,” she spat back, mad at his assumptions. Neither Zabini’s blood status nor war allegiances were reasons for her skepticism of his professionalism, but she wasn’t about to mention the other Slytherin’s recent indiscretions towards her at the Ministry.

“But speaking of biased,” she began, “you have to admit that a war narrative by two Death Eaters—”

Draco cleared his throat again. “I wasn’t done.”

Hermione pursed her lips. She was a little pissed at him for cutting her off, but also remembered that she had interrupted him first. Nodding, she assented for him to continue. He accepted her muted apology.

“I have Blaise involved in the curation,” Draco said again, starting to pace the room. “But I don’t want it to be just a museum filled with historical objects.”

Hermione wasn’t sure where this was going.

“So I have a proposal for you,” he was still saying.

“Okay?”

She failed to leave the wariness out of her tone.

Draco stopped his pacing and faced her.

“I know why you’re here, Granger,” he said then, glancing at her tightly held handbag. “You want me to publicly sponsor your precious Blood Equality Act. And you think you could sell it to me, because you think it would help my family’s reputation after the war.”

Hermione caught her breath. That was it. The entire premise of her pitch to him.

“But that’s not enough,” he said.

Her heart dropped at those words.

It was Kingsley’s idea in the first place, and she had been 50/50 on Draco Malfoy’s willingness to be on board with it, but now she was less sure. Malfoy was also staring at her so fixedly, she suddenly realised the very real possibility of the Slytherin prats colluding with each other. _God, if this was about Zabini’s proposal—!_ She was ready to shoot him down, but his next words surprised her, again.

“I want you as a consultant on my museum committee.”

“—I’m sorry?”

Draco squeezed the bridge of his nose in frustration. It was hard enough for him to have to ask _her_ for help, but here she was, day dreaming through his pitch!

“I said,” he tried again, holding down the very real but childish desire to chew her out. “I want your input in how we organise the museum. I want you to … _help_ me … make the content thorough and accessible.”

When she looked at him as if he had grown two heads, he pressed on with what was left of his courage.

“To everyone, Granger!” He let out an exasperated sigh. “Everyone involved in the war!”

She had understood him the first time, really.

“I’m sorry,” she said, shaking out of her stupor. “I’m just surprised that you’re making such a sensible request.”

Draco scoffed loudly at that. “I appreciate your confidence.”

“Forgive my skepticism, Malfoy,” she laughed. “But you and I don’t exactly have a record of working together.”

“And yet, here you are, with a contract already drafted out and stuffed in you handbag.”

She blushed profusely. He got her on that.

“I don’t understand though,” she murmured. Might as well bring all her misgivings into the light. “Why are you doing this?’

Draco deepened his frown.

“Is it so hard to believe that you’re not the only one here who wants to _try_ , as it were?”

Hermione parted her lips to ask if he was now quoting her, but decided against bickering with him again. It was so easy with him, but she could see now that there was cold sweat on his forehead. His chest was heaving heavily. Draco Malfoy was genuinely nervous.

She considered his offer with that in mind, and finally decided to walk up to him.

“So?” he asked, feeling uneasy. She’d never stood so close to him before.

Hermione searched his face for any sense of deceit, but there was none.

She couldn’t believe what she was about to say, but she was entirely willing to give people chances. It was why she was here in the first place.

She reached her hand out to him. “I’m willing to _try_.”

Draco looked down at her outstretched hand with some surprise. He wondered if this moment will go down in history as the beginning of true understanding between their different sides of the war, or if it was just another false start. He wasn’t sure, but there was a first time for everything, and looking up at the woman, who had once been his enemy—now his thread of hope, maybe even a future friend—Draco decided that he wanted this.

He took her hand.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

She looked surprised, and then she smiled. At him.

There really was a first time for everything.

#

The sky was beginning to turn crimson and orange. 

“Let’s call it a day,” Draco suggested.They’d been negotiating the terms of their deal for most of the afternoon. As Hermione began to gather her things, they both turned to the fireplace, which had suddenly blazed up with a bright, green flame.

When a swarthy young man stepped out, Hermione dropped her bag. She marched towards the fireplace, ready to slap him in the face.

“I KNEW IT—”

Blaise Zabini grabbed her hand before she could do any damage.

“Why, hellooo, Granger. Fancy seeing you here.”

He leaned in for a kiss, but she brought her other hand up and slapped him with that instead. Blaise cowered with an exaggerated “OW!”

“You _KNEW_ I’d be here!” she exclaimed, angry at his feinted innocence.

Quickly turning around to Draco, she pointed an accusatory finger at him too.

“And here I thought you weren’t in on this!”

The blonde wizard was flabbergast. “What in the bloody hell are you talking about?”

Hermione pointed back at Zabini, red-faced and indignant. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know about your friend’s _proposal_ \- he’s been harassing me for the good part of the last few weeks! How else would he even know I was here?”

“I didn’t!” Blaise cried out in defense. “I just came here to celebrate with Draco—” He raised the large bottle that he was carefully cradling away from Hermione’s violent reach. “Kingsley had approved the site of our museum just now!”

Hermione faltered a little, but Draco narrowed his eyes at that. He wasn’t fooled. The museum approval had already come in by owl mail the day before. Blaise had also conveniently skipped over whatever ‘proposal’ he had been harassing her with. It was suspicious, but the devious Slytherin was already scouring through a drinks cabinet for wine glasses.

“So, are you joining us?” Blaise asked from the other side of the room, all cheery again.

Hermione folded her arms. “You knew I would, didn’t you?”

Draco was surprised to hear that. They hadn’t even spoken about the exact terms of her employment with him yet, except that she would only agree to it, if he helped her clinch the legal changes against blood discrimination.

Blaise gave an affirmative laugh, and pulled out a set of gorgeous crystals, each with its unique patterns.

“Hey, be careful with those,” Draco said disapprovingly. “They were Mother’s engagement gift.”

Blaise paid no heed. He was already pouring out the wine.

“Don’t be stingy now,” he sing-songed, bringing three glasses over on a silver tray. He turned to address Hermione again. “I saw no harm in the deal for you, really.” He handed her a glass. “Except for increasing your work load, and we all know that’s not an issue for Hermione Granger.”

He winked at her. Draco chuckled at that as he took a glass too. Hermione scoffed, but she didn’t seem all that upset either. In fact, she seemed quite happy to be included.

“You know,” she said, still eyeing Blaise suspiciously. “I’m starting to think that your ridiculous proposal was just a twisted metaphor for this deal all this time.”

“What is this proposal that you two speak of?” Draco was losing his patience.

Blaise shushed him.

“First,” he said. “We enjoy this fine Chianti wine together. Then we can get back to that.”

Hermione wasn’t sure about the latter, but she was happy to get to the seemingly delicious Tuscany wine. Merlin, it smelled like fresh crispy apples and a day by the sea.

Blaise raised his glass. “Come on, Coco, this was your idea,” he prompted with a wink.

Hermione raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t call me that,” Draco seethed.

Now she was chuckling. “—Is that a pet name for him?”

“Yes—”

“ _NO_ , it isn’t! Am I toasting, or are we fooling around now?!”

They both shut up. Hermione was still stifling a giggle.

“Alright.”

Draco cleared his throat with some displeasure, and raised his glass. Hermione raised hers too. The exquisite ruby red intensified in the setting sun through the delicate carvings on her glass. It was beautiful.

“To a successful collaboration,” Draco toasted.

Hermione chimed in. “To a future with more empathy and good communication.”

“Hear hear,” Blaise whistled. “Cheers to that.”

“Cheers."

The wine went down smoothly. It tasted rich and salty like chocolate, but also fresh like black currants and raspberries. Hermione sighed happily. Nothing like a lovely glass of wine at the end of a fruitful work day.

“Mmm,” Malfoy murmured too with his eyes closed, enjoying the complex flavours. “Always can rely on you for an excellent glass of wine.”

Blaise grinned, but said nothing, watching them over the rim of his glass as he gulped down the rest.

It didn’t take long for them to finish the bottle between them.

“So?” Draco asked, some half an hour later. The sun was setting low on the horizon, creating long, enticing shadows on the walls of the reading room. The young blonde man leaned back onto a couch across from them, loosened his tie, and kicked his legs up comfortably onto the coffee table. An idle smirk formed across his face, while his nearly empty glass of wine hung lazily from his fingers.

For the first time that day, Hermione recognised the haughty Slytherin boy that she’d known all those years ago.

“What do you mean, so?” she asked, as she moved to lean against the side table. She felt a little giddy, a little out of sorts. She’d only had a couple glasses though. How was she tipsy already? _Gosh, it’s getting hot in here. These floor-to-ceiling windows are too much._

Blaise chuckled. He watched Hermione stumble to take a seat near Malfoy as he took another sip of his wine.

“He’s asking about my proposal, Granger,” he answered for his friend. “Which, I’m surprised he hasn’t figured out yet.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. He knew Blaise too well.

“So it’s … dirty?”

Blaise waggled his eyebrows at him.

Draco took that as a yes.

“And …” he turned to look at Hermione, who suddenly looked wildly uncomfortable to meet his eye. “I’m somehow involved.”

Blaise’s grin grew wider.

Draco turned to his friend, who was a _little_ too thrilled now. “So … you’ve been trying to convince Granger to, what, have a shag with us?”

He couldn’t believe the words that were coming out of his mouth. It was rare for him to not think before he spoke these days. He was sure his boldness came from the wine. _Might as well finish the rest._ He took one last swig from his glass, and placed it on the side table next to Hermione. She reacted by letting out a small peep, like she thought that he was going to touch her.

Draco took that as a definite yes. Now that he had let the thought sink in, he was genuinely uncomfortable. His smirk was gone. Blaise’s grin wasn’t going anywhere though.

“It’s a brilliant idea, don’t you think?”

“So you were serious?”

Hermione put her glass down. She didn’t know why she was scandalised all over again.

Blaise wasn’t done. “You know, considering what Pansy’s done to you both.”

Draco grimaced at that. “So you suggested we have revenge sex with each other? That makes no sense.”

“Wait,” Hermione interrupted. Her ears were turning red from the bluntness of this conversation, with two men who were essentially strangers to her, but she was curious as hell. “Pansy did _what_ to you?”

Draco cleared his throat, but didn’t answer, so Blaise came to the rescue.

“Dear _Pansy_ , you see, was upset that Draco boy here didn’t stand up for her when his parents chose a fiancee for him,” he mused with way too much interest.

Hermione raised an eyebrow at the implications. Draco said nothing, like it was the most normal thing in the world to marry a family arranged partner, instead of the girl that she had supposed he had been seeing for years.

Come to think of it, there was no mentioning of Pansy’s relationship with Draco on the Prophet, despite the excruciating detail they’d published on her affair with Ron, as well as his marital troubles with Hermione.

Hermione narrowed her eyes and glared at Draco.

“You bought off the papers?”

He shrugged. “My family was in talks for the engagement with the Greengrasses. Father wasn’t going to allow any scandal.”

Hermione was furious, even though she understood that the Malfoys had no reason to help cover up _her_ scandal for her.

“Look, it wasn’t serious,” Blaise explained helpfully.

Draco interrupted quickly. “It’s not that—”

“Anyway,” Blaise continued, ignoring him. “Point is, she bullied Astoria for months,” he said, suddenly looking cold and dangerous. “Poor girl was this close to calling it off before their engagement party.”

They both looked rather pissed then. Hermione wondered if Draco actually did have feelings for his future wife - arranged marriage was such a foreign concept for her, she couldn’t even begin to imagine.

“Needless to say,” he finally spoke. “We’re no longer friends with the bitch now.”

“Wait,” Hermione said again. She suddenly remembered when she had seen the news of Draco’s engagement party on the Daily Prophet. “How long have you been … how long have you known you would be engaged to each other?”

Draco knitted his brows. “Half a year or so, why?”

“So,” she did a quick calculation in her head. “She was cheating on you with my now ex husband, before you got engaged, and—”

“I would have hardly described Draco and Pansy as a steady couple, Granger,” Blaise interrupted.

Draco scowled. “I would have hardly described us as a couple at all.”

Hermione didn’t want to know the details, but that was a less important point. His engagement party was less than a month ago. “So she was bullying your fiancee, trying to sabotage your marriage, WHILE dating … dating Ron? All this time?”

Draco and Blaise stared blankly at her. They clearly didn’t share her consternation. Blaise was looking at her with such intrigue too.

“Have you never been jealous of someone while banging another, Granger?” he asked, moving up to stand against her. Hermione suddenly felt the heat rising to her cheeks.

“I—” she thought of Harry then, and realised that there was some of that in what had happened only a few nights ago. She was hurt AND jealous, and ended up in her best friend’s arms. It made her wonder if she was a hypocrite after all, for momentarily judging Pansy even more than she already had. One could certainly argue that she and Harry had broken Ginny’s trust—her possible infidelity aside.

Blaise saw the way she retreated into her mind and grinned roguishly. “Thinking about your lover, Granger?” he asked, leaning into her ear.

Her cheeks turned bright red.

“I knew it,” he said, grinning even more. He hooked a stray hair onto her ear, and slid a hand down to the small of her back. Hermione tried to back away, but she was already leaning against the table. There was nowhere to go. “What do you say, little minx? Shouldn’t we have a lovely orgy fest too, hm? To get over our exes? Might as well get to know each other better in the process. We’ll be working together soon, after all.”

Hermione’s heart was beating out of control, but she managed to glare at him for presuming that she would be interested. There was also a missing link in his narrative. “Who is _your_ ex, Zabini?”

The two men gave each other a meaningful look over her shoulder. Blaise looked as if he’d let slip something that he hadn’t intended to.

“Oh, come on,” Hermione said angrily. She shoved him away from her, but almost lost her footing when she did. Blaise immediately took her hand to steady her, and she took it more gratefully than she normally would have, but the world was spinning a little right now, and they were in a confessional mood, so why not?

She stood straight again and glared at him, even though she was still holding on to his hand. “You know everything there is to know about my failed marriage from the papers,” she demanded. “The least you can do is share.”

Blaise only gave her a noncommittal shrug. “Don’t worry about me,” he said as he took her chin to turn her face back towards Draco, reminding her that he had never mentioned his own agenda in his proposal. He snaked his hands down to her hips, and turned her around entirely, so she was facing the table. Hermione let out a little yelp.

“What’s important now is that _he_ knows about our little secret agreement,” he whispered, moving to stand behind her.

**WARNING WARNING WARNING WARNING WARNING**

“I never agreed to—” Hermione gasped. Blaise had pressed his body up against her back, and she was suddenly acutely aware of his hard erection pressed up against her ass.

Draco’s eyes widened at their sudden display of affection. _Merlin, when had Blaise bagged_ the _Hermione Granger?_

“Hey, I don’t know what’s going on here,” he spluttered, leaning as far back as he possibly could on the couch. The world was spinning for him. “But I never agreed to joining it.”

“Relax, Draco,” Blaise drawled, pulling Hermione closer to him, despite her protests. “We’re not there yet. I’m just lending you a hand now.”

Hermione didn’t understand. Her head was spinning too, and now a familiar feeling of arousal was suddenly attacking her body, urging her to grind up against the nice, long cock that nestled between her cheeks. She couldn’t understand why. She had thought that Blaise was physically attractive, yes, but his recent behaviour had really turned her off, and their elevator incident was really her last straw. Now, though, all she could think about was having his dick ram through her until she screamed her orgasm. And she wanted it, _bad._

This wasn’t normal even for her recently found sexual liberation. _What on earth was in that wine?_

“Zabini— _Malfoy,_ please!”

Draco was suddenly not so sure if the two really had a thing going.

“Granger?”

“You’re starting to feel it, don’t you?” Blaise chuckled, running a hand up between her heaving breasts and then down the front to her panty line. Hermione let out an involuntary moan as he slipped under her skirt and touched her bare skin between her thighs. It was both disgusting and erotic. She couldn’t control herself.

Alarmed, Draco made to stand up. He reached for his wand in his pocket, but Blaise was faster.

“ _Incacerous._ ”

Thick ropes appeared out of thin air, tying Draco to the couch. The blonde groaned loudly and coughed as the bindings tightened around his chest. His wand fell to the floor.

“I said, _relax,_ ” Blaise hissed.

Draco grunted into his bindings, unable to move anyway. He looked up with the intention to glare at his vexatious friend for being an ass, except his jaw dropped to the floor when Blaise pulled Hermione’s shirt off and revealed her smooth, delicious looking skin. The dark beige laces underneath her clothes were unexpectedly erotic. Draco couldn’t look away as Blaise taunted him more by taking a love bite on her bared shoulder, and took things even further by pushing her bra down, which brought her bouncing boobs into full display. He gulped when she mewled a weak protest to Blaise hiking up her skirt, too.

“Zabini, _please—_ ”

“Please what?” Blaise chuckled. His eyes were dark with lust.

She whined a _no_ , but her voice cracked as she made to speak. It was so not what she wanted, but her body was betraying her with a burning desire for release. She felt dirty, and her brain was screaming it wasn’t right, but she found no strength to get away.

Draco suddenly understood. There was anger in his eyes.

“Blaise,” he panted in pain. It was hard to speak with the bindings over his lungs. “You moron, you didn’t—”

“Buddy, you need to learn to shut up and watch. _Silencio_.”

Draco’s eyes widened with horror then, his voice nowhere to be found. The room now only echoed with Hermione’s panting and whining.

“No, Zabini … no, _please_ … what _is_ this—?”

“I thought I asked you to call me Blaise, didn’t I?” he chuckled. Hermione whimpered as he rubbed a finger over her drenched panties vengefully.

“It’s just your body, Granger,” he whispered into her ear, biting her earlobe as he pushed her undies aside and ran a finger up her slit. “It’s showing me your hidden desires—” He glanced at the crystal glass that Hermione had used. “—and right now, it looks like you desire me.” With the same breath, he went back to licking and kissing her ear. Hermione let out a nervous sigh. Her breathing hitched at the sure feeling of him bruising her skin as he sucked onto her neckline. She couldn’t help but let out a moan again as he kept at it. It was all she could do to resist grinding her hips against his intruding hand.

“I need that guy over there,” Blaise said, taking a deep breath as he nodded at his friend, who looked embarrassed now. Blaise grinned with satisfaction, and pushed Hermione’s stomach flat against the table with one hand, so her bare chest was only inches away from Draco’s face. The young Malfoy heir swallowed hard at the taunting sight.

“I need him to acknowledge what he feels for you, Granger,” Blaise panted hotly into Hermione’s ear, loud enough for Draco to hear.

He then reached around to knead Hermione’s breasts, while his other hand continued to insistently rub her off down there. Hermione tried to move his hands away without collapsing onto the table, but he was back at it before she could quite pry his fingers away. It was unbearably arousing.

“It wouldn’t hurt if we got to have some fun in the mean time either,” he purred.

Hermione whimpered. “I don’t wan— _Oh God!_ ” He pushed a finger inside her, and then another. “No, I don’t … _Don’t! Zabini—!_ ”

“I. _Said._ ” he punctuated his words forcefully, pumping inside her with every syllable. “ _Call. Me. Blaise._ ”

“—Blaise. _Blaise,_ _please!_ I’m not clear-headed enough to— _AH!_ ”

He pulled his fingers out and rubbed her juices all over her swollen, sensitive nub. It was in that moment that a switch flipped inside her. Hermione moaned and moaned, finally incapable of keeping her sanity. Her mind detached from her body as the latter enjoyed every sensation his fingers brought upon it, especially with his long, hard dick pressed up against her bum, practical grinding into her. There was no going back now. She was screaming by the time she came, and the orgasm was so intense that she would have collapsed to the floor, if not for Blaise holding on.

**WARNING WARNING WARNING WARNING WARNING**

She hated it. Hated that her body betrayed her. Hated that he didn’t listen. And when her body finally stopped responding to the stimulant, Hermione did the only thing she could think of doing. She pulled her elbow in and slammed it into Blaise’s gut. The Slytherin screamed in pain, but she wasn’t done. Turning around quickly, she punched him across the face, hard. Enough to bruise him. Bless her soul, she would’ve kicked him in the groin too, but it was the most she could muster now with her shaking knees.

Blaise fell to the floor, whining in pain as he held his bleeding nose.

“Serves you right,” she spat coldly. Her mind had never been clearer. Her clothing was a mess, her body and soul in distress, but she got a shaving of her dignity back, and she intended to keep it that way. Seeing his wand on the floor next to him, she kicked that to a far corner of the room for good measure.

“I don’t ever want to see you again.”

Pulling her shirt back in place, she walked over to grab her bag from the large desk that she and Draco had been working on earlier, and stormed pass them again, ready to get the hell out via Floo. She took one last fuming look at Draco though, who looked pathetically awkward in his circumstances. Blaise was still writhing in the corner.

“I still expect you at the Wizengamot hearing next week, Malfoy,” she made that very clear. “Otherwise, any discussion about my consultation for your museum is _over_.”

She then walked off without saying goodbye, with barely a tear in her eye, even though she felt like her insides had been torn to pieces. No, she would not give either of them the satisfaction of seeing her fall apart. Not these snakes from the pits of hell.

#

Blaise choked a nervous laughter as soon as she was gone. “Was she always such a tough nut?” He was thankful that the angry witch could no longer hurt him.

Draco scoffed like it was the dumbest question on the planet. He hadn’t forgotten her punching _him_ in the nose, way back in their third year.

As soon as Blaise undid the silencing spell on him, he blew his top.

“What in the _hell_ were you thinking? Using an aphrodisiac on Granger?!”

Blaise showed no hint of remorse, despite nursing his still bleeding nose. Instead, he was fascinated.

“ _That,_ ” he said, pointing at Draco’s furious expression. “Is what I was trying to show you.”

Draco’s chest rose and fell with some difficulty as he was still bound to the couch. “What nonsense are you spouting now?” he hissed. “And _will you get these off me_??”

Blaise shook his head with a chuckle. “Buddy, please tell me you realise that there is no reason for you to be this mad—my bindings aside—if you weren’t obsessed with her.”

Draco frowned like his friend had gone insane, but Blaise wasn’t done.

“This museum thing too. It could’ve been anyone, but you decided that _she_ was the most acceptable choice—and don’t tell me it’s because Kingsley sent her to discuss their end of the deal, I KNOW you had her in mind before you knew that.”

Draco didn’t argue with that, but he still didn’t see the connection. “Look, I don’t know where you got the idea, but I—WHAT ARE YOU DOING? OH, FUCK!”

Blaise had walked up to him and unabashedly made to grab his groin. Draco managed to back up before Blaise touched him, but toppled the couch backwards in the process. He was now lying on his back, with his legs dangling helplessly in the air. Blaise hooted in laughter at the ridiculous sight, before pulling the couch right side up for him. He just wanted to make a point.

“Man, you really have some deeply rooted insecurities, don’t you?” he cackled, backing up immediately to show that he wasn’t going to attempt to grab Draco’s dick again. “This is exactly why, Drake. Your desire for Granger is so fucking repressed, you don’t even see it yourself.”

Draco was losing his patience. “Like I was about to say earlier, I am _not_ pining after Granger, but—but!” he exclaimed, stopping Blaise from interrupting him again. “But, let’s say you’re right, I _am_ pining after her. You know that I’m getting married! So what’s the deal here?”

Blaise grinned cockily, like it was obvious. “To make sure you understand she’s way out of your league, arsehole. Or at least get it all out of your system while you’re still single, so you don’t fuck up later over some childhood fantasy.”

“Bullshit.” Draco didn’t buy it. One should never take Blaise Zabini’s words at face value.

“You’re trying to get me to fuck up now, because you want to get with Astoria after all.”

Blaise’s expression suddenly turned cold. “I don’t want her, remember? I can’t.”

“You just can’t marry her,” Malfoy corrected him.

“You don’t know Astoria then.”

Draco fell silent.

Blaise also said nothing for a while, wiping the dried blood from his nose.

They were at a stalemate.

"You know, I get that you don’t see it yet,” Blaise said after a while, moving to pick up his wand from the other end of the room. “But I swear to Salazar, you’ll agree with me once you figure it out.” He walked up behind Draco and untied his bindings. 

The rope disappeared. Draco leaned into his lap for a moment, looking breathless.

“But ... you’re right," Blaise confessed, with venom in his voice now.

"I violated Granger in front of you, because I wanted you to feel even an iota of my misery.”

Draco’s outrage outweighed his need to catch his breath then. He got up and punched Blaise in the gut, right where Hermione had struck him earlier.

Blaise limped against the divan and slid to the floor in pain. That punch was _hard._

“Out of my sight, Blaise,” Draco wheezed, clutching on to the side of his torso, where he was starting to cramp from being bound for too long.

“Out, before I kicked you in the groin like Granger should have.”

Blaise laughed breathlessly to that. _Merlin, he really lacks self-awareness._

He watched as Draco turned away and limped awkwardly to the stairs that led to his bedroom. Blaise didn’t miss the hard-on that his friend still had between his thighs. A grin spread across his face.

“Come to think of it, mate,” he called innocently across the room. “I don’t remember spiking _your_ drink.”

Draco cursed loudly again for him to get out, but Blaise stayed lying on the floor, looking rather smug despite the pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is now Part I of a three part series called The Love We Stole. Each part will be ten chapters!
> 
> Next chapter: Glamour Magic.


	6. Glamour Magic

Ginny Potter hadn't always been a morning person. One would be hard pressed to describe her as such even now, but she had certainly become incredibly capable of waking up without setting an alarm since she became a mother. Lately, however, she wasn’t willing to open her eyes so readily. Not when her husband's back had been so firmly faced towards her every morning.

Today was no exception. As her eyes adjusted to the early sunlight, morose threatened to rise in her heart. Quietly, Ginny inhaled and exhaled, least her tears started to flow again. There was enough crying already when Harry finally came home, after fleeing from the sight of Dean kissing her. She still reproached him for disappearing that entire evening, still blamed herself for the mess of a situation, but now was not the time to start another fight. She wanted to make amends.

Gently, so as not to startle, she slipped her arm around his waist and softly spooned him, moulding her lower limbs against the crook of his curled up legs. 

“Morning, babe,” she whispered, stroking soft circles on his chest. Harry stirred, murmuring incoherently. She thought that he was going to turn towards her, but he rolled away and into his pillow, effectively slipping out of her touch. Ginny hesitated but resumed her stroking, now down a sensitive spot on his back. When he showed no sign of responding after a while though, she stopped. She slid her legs over the edge of the bed and sat up, running a tired hand across her brow.

“ … Are you punishing me?” she asked softly.

Harry opened his eyes then. His back remained turned towards her, but Ginny didn’t miss the soft sigh that he thought he was keeping to himself.

”It’s not like that,” he said, though reluctantly. “I just … don’t feel like it right now.”

His response was infuriating. “For _the last week?”_ she wanted to retort, but she couldn’t bring herself to do so. It wasn’t like they had sex very often since the baby was born—mostly because they often went to bed fighting about one nonsense or another—but it was humiliating enough that she had been trying every night and morning since the Dean incident, and he was just … rejecting her. Was her momentary hesitance in reprimanding her ex _that_ wrong that she deserved this much aversion? For Merlin’s sake, _it was just a kiss on the cheek!_

James started to cry in the baby room.

“I guess it’s seven,” Ginny muttered, mostly to herself. The boy cried like clockwork these days. She pulled her tangled tresses up into a bun, and made to stand up, but Harry had already slipped out of bed. She turned around just in time to see him enter the baby room.

_So he has the motivation to take care of the baby, at least._

Despite herself, Ginny smiled when she heard her husband cooing in the other room. It was nice to have him share responsibilities at home. She undid her hair again, undressed, and walked into the shower stall, humming a nursery rhyme softly under her breath as she let the water heat up.

In the baby room, Harry had changed James' diapers and helped the toddler put on his clothes, which was surprisingly difficult. Their baby boy was all giggles, trying to wriggle out of his father’s helpless grip.

“There you go, dapper little fella,” Harry chuckled with satisfaction finally, tickling the soles of his baby’s red and yellow sock shoes, which matched his little beanie. “You're wearing daddy and mummy's house colors today. Grandma would be happy to see you.”

James ooh-ed and ahh-ed at the mentioning of Molly. Rolling his head around to the familiar sound of Ginny singing in the shower, he cooed a little more. Harry smiled at the adorableness of it all, and wondered if his father had quiet moments like these with him. For the umpth time in his life, he badly wished that he had the opportunity to ask his parents these basic questions about the time he’d spent with them, even if they never had the opportunity to raise him much longer beyond his first birthday.

Glancing at the slightly opened bathroom door, towards which James stretched like a cute little worm now, Harry felt his heart clench as he replayed Ginny’s earlier words in his head. He didn’t really want to reject her, but he couldn’t otherwise. Not when even the smallest tender gesture only evoked feelings of arousal for _her_. Not his wife, but his best friend, whom he still had a hard time believing he had embraced.

Harry hadn’t felt it was wrong at the time. No, the consequence of sleeping with Hermione was only beginning to eat him up now, as he realised that what they had shared had sprung from a wistfulness and loneliness that, even now, only _she_ understood. The thought was equally comforting as it was petrifying, making him question a lot more about his life decisions than Ginny’s indiscretion with Dean had. And Harry wasn’t entirely sure what any of his contradictory feelings meant, except that he couldn’t bear to reciprocate his wife’s attempts at intimacy right now.

“Dada.”

He inhaled sharply.

“Da … da,” James said again, reaching for his father’s stubbled chin with curiosity. 

Harry let out a soft, restrained laugh and touched his baby’s tiny hand. Tears began to well up. “Yes, son,” he whispered. “It’s daddy.”

“Daaaaaa,” James laughed, clapping his hands.

“Did he just say something?”

Harry sniffled quietly and turned around to meet Ginny’s curious gaze from the doorframe.

Ginny looked pretty with her long, wet hair dripping onto her bare shoulders. Her once tanned skin was translucent now, almost as pale as the thick beige towel wrapped around her, and the freckles on her nose stood out more with the flush in her cheeks. Harry saw her uncertain eyes move from his face to James, which then shined brightly with excitement, when their son repeated his newly learned word. She gave James an affectionate nuzzle and repeated the word back to him encouragingly. Their son giggled at that, in such a way that Harry found himself releasing a sigh that he didn’t even know he was holding.

He watched his wife place their child lovingly in his cradle, and wondered why it was that he couldn’t feel closer to such a warm, beautiful woman, when he loved her so.

He did love her.

“Can’t wait for him to learn how to say mama too,” Ginny chuckled. Their eyes met, and he could see that she was suddenly self-conscious again. Ginny tightened the towel around her chest.

“Same,” Harry whispered back with lowered eyes. It wasn’t his intention to make her uncomfortable. Wanting to show that he was willing to try, he stood up to wrap an arm around her waist. A look of surprise passed her face, but quickly dissipated into relief when he nestled his nose onto the crook of her neck. Her hair smelled like lavender and chamomile. It was a wonder that he’d confused her scent with Hermione’s the other day. Harry felt like he had stolen something. A moment that wasn’t his.

Somehow, that thought broke his heart.

Ginny smiled into his shoulder as she squeezed back, glad that her husband was finally voluntarily touching her. She thought that she might lean up for a proper kiss—his hand was certainly wandering along the edges of her towel now—but the clock on the wall suddenly came into her line of sight.

“Shoot, I spent too long in the shower!” She quickly let go and scrammed around their bedroom, panicking as she set her face and hair. “Babe, can you make us some breakfast?” she called out, pulling out the outfit that she had already chosen the night before. “Just, anything, really. I just need a bite—argh! Where is my wand?”

Harry hid his disappointment well, even though he had been _this_ close to feeling in the mood. Nodding wordlessly and scratching his stubbled chin, he did a cursory glance around the room. As usual, he easily found her wand, this time under James’ story books. He passed that to her, (which she accepted gratefully,) and briskly walked over to the kitchen to make two small sandwiches. Scratching his face some more, he contemplated a quick shave before work, when she flew over to him, grabbed a piece, and then ran off again to finish dressing up.

“Will you—”

“Take James to the Burrow, yes,” Harry finished her sentence as he took a bite of ham and cheese. “We spoke about it last night.”

“Right,” Ginny nodded, fixing her earrings in the mirror. “And I’ll pick him up in the afternoon. Oh.” She couldn’t locate her CV and portfolio. (“It’s on the fireplace,” Harry pointed out as he returned to the bedroom.) “Thanks. I was saying—” her mind was in ten different places at the same time. “—Can you fix the heat in the bathroom later?”

Harry paused mid-buttoning his shirt, which he had arbitrarily chosen from the closet. “Has it finally gone out?” he asked with a newly formed frown. Now he was throwing on whichever tie was closest to his reach. Shaving would have to wait today.

“Not quite,” Ginny muttered frustratedly as she put on her shoes at the fireplace. “But it was very unstable.”

Harry nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll check on it after work,” he said as he pulled on his trousers, though he wondered when he’d be home. It was almost half way through September, and the Auror Office required quarterly reports to the Minister, which, Harry was sure that his boss was going to pile onto him, again.

“Do I look alright?”

He turned around to her question as he slipped a belt through the hoops in his trousers, and his eyes widened. Ginny looked incredibly well put together, which was quite impressive, seeing as she had never dressed office professional. When she was the star Chaser of the Holyhead Harpies, her Quidditch uniform had been all that she had needed to fit into her work identity. Her hair had always been in a high pony tail, and make up wasn’t an option. Now though, she was wearing a bring green jacket over a light blue button up, and dark blue pants, all of which contrasted nicely with her long red hair, which she had gathered at the nape of her neck. Her pink lips were pretty, and the blush on her cheeks accentuated her tall cheekbones. She looked charming.

Harry gulped a little, knowing who would very likely be seeing her like this today. “Looks great,” he said, his throat dry.

Ginny didn’t miss his hesitation. A tiny frown formed on her pretty face.

“What is it?” she asked worriedly, running a hand through her hair to see if it was tangled, but Harry shook his head.

“Nothing,” he answered, sitting down to put his socks on. “You look good, love.”

He tried to flash her a smile, but he could tell that she didn’t believe him. The clock was ticking.

“Alright then … ” Ginny’s voice trailed away. She went into the baby room to check on James one last time. 

“Wish me luck?”

Harry looked at his wife again, who now stood nervously at the bedroom door. There was more imploring in her tone than he would’ve liked, but he understood her concern. She wanted him to support her through this. Even though he was still having trouble with the idea that Dean could be her colleague soon. Even though he had stolen moments, too, possibly a _lot_ more, and with none other than Hermione, who still turned him on easily without even being there. Merlin, he was in deep shit.

Ginny was still waiting for his response.

“You’ll get the job, Gin,” Harry breathed, pulling himself together with a supportive smile. “There's no one who knows the ins and outs of professional Quidditch as you do.”

A weak smile formed on Ginny’s lips. She nodded, but lowered her eyes as she turned away to head to the fireplace.

Harry thought that he had failed to encourage her. He had no idea that the moment had been ruined, simply because he had called her by a pet name that Dean had used often when they were dating.

And he still called her that.

Even the smallest affections felt so complicated lately.

#

By late afternoon, Harry was certain that he would be working overtime. As deputy chief, he had to approve all the reports that passed through him, and he had planned to finish before the end of the day, but even that was only the beginning of his administrative duties. Harry much preferred doing hands on work with his field agents.

Sometimes, he wondered if he was really suited for his promotion.

Just as his approved pile of reports was starting to grow taller than the unread one, someone rapped at his door. It opened before he could answer. Harry stood up immediately.

“Potter,” Chief Auror Gawain Robards said as he stepped in. “Will you take this to Shacklebolt? I have to step out for a moment.”

Harry glanced outside and saw a few familiar looking Wizengamot judges and Ministry higher-ups milling about the office, no doubt waiting to have a private chat with Robards over high tea. Used to this, Harry took the pile of papers from his superior with an expressionless nod. He would’ve scowled, really, but he had learned not to show distaste for his boss’ tendency to smooch up to politicians.

Quietly locking his room behind him, he went down to the Minister’s Office. In the privacy of the elevator, Harry momentarily allowed an unthinkable thought to hover in his mind, one that had been whirling about the back of his head since that morning. He thought of his sweet baby boy, and the woman who gave birth to him, the woman who had stood by his side all these years. He loved her, he really did. At least, he told himself that he did. There was no question about it until last weekend, _so what has changed?_ Harry banged the back of his head against the wall as the elevator arrived at the first floor. _What the fuck was I thinking?_

He could almost smell the sweet scent of apples in her hair from here, but that was absolute nonsense. Hermione's office was a good twenty feet away from the elevator door, which was now opening. Harry knew he was delusional at this point. He badly wanted to avoid her, but also _badly_ wanted to see her. Whatever he wanted was a moot point though.

Her office was locked.

The lights were off too.

“Looking for Hermione?”

“Oh.”

He turned around to find Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt towering over him with curiosity. Harry’s cheeks flushed a little.

“Uh, yes, sir—well, no, actually, I’m here for you. Just,” Harry passed Robards’ folder to him, and nervously glanced at Hermione’s closed office door. “Thought I’d say hi.”

Kingsley smiled warmly. It was nice to see that at least two of the Golden Trio remained close, even after Hermione’s very public and bitter divorce with Ron. Tugging up his heavy royal purple robe sleeves, he accepted the documents with both hands.

“Please tell Robards that I’ve respectfully accepted his proposal for review.” Harry cocked an eyebrow at a rare but fleeting darkness in Kingsley’s eyes, and wondered if he should ask, but he was quickly distracted by the Minister’s next words.

“As for our dear Hermione,” the flamboyant elder wizard sighed. “She’s out on a somewhat thorny mission today.”

Harry didn’t like the sound of that.

“Though,” Kingsley said with pause, glancing at the setting sun outside. “I imagine she should be done by now.”

#

Hermione arrived at her apartment and immediately cursed herself for taking the Floo Network without thinking. Now Draco Malfoy’s fireplace would have a record of her address in muggle London. Even if Blaise weren’t able to access it—at least she hoped—the bloody ferret certainly could. She hoped that he wouldn’t check.

Looking down at her disheveled clothes, she tried to stop her hands from shaking. Her whole body was, in fact, shaking in anger. Zabini’s invasion of her body left such a strong impression—even though her knuckles hurt more from the solid punch that she gave him—she felt an intense need to scrub herself down. First, though, she needed something to calm the nerves.

Her hands were still shaking.

Hermione turned her kitchen cabinets upside down looking for an antidote, something that might get rid of what remained of the stimulants in her system. She wasn’t sure if a hangover cure would work. She was fairly certain that Zabini had spiked her drink with an aphrodisiac. It wasn’t Amortentia, but she could tell from the effects that it was similar. Spilling a home-made cold remedy by accident, Hermione choked on her anger and slammed a hand against the kitchen counter, cursing herself for getting hotheaded and being tempted by Blaise’s damned wine.

_LESS EMOTIONS, LESS FRUSTRATIONS!_

“Welp, that mantra didn’t work very well now, did it?” she muttered bitterly.

In the last drawer, she unexpectedly found a bar of chocolate, and reached for it by instinct. Ripping the wrappings coarsely, she shoved a large piece into her mouth. It tasted rich, delicious, all kinds of wonderful, and a calming sensation slowly spread through her soul. In a state of bewilderment, Hermione leaned against the counter as she broke off another piece. Carefully placing the confectionery between her lips this time, she chewed more slowly and forced her mind to stay blank, to not replay what had only just happened to her in the Malfoy Manor a few moments ago.

No, she didn’t want to think about it.

Instead, the thought of Remus passed her mind. Of the day when she and her friends had met him for the first time on the Hogwarts Express as Professor Lupin. He had taught them of the usefulness of chocolate then, and it had become a habit since for Hermione to get some chocolate from the store whenever she remembered it. Fast forward a few years, and he was gone. So was Tonks, and so many friends in the war.

Somehow, that soul crushing but unrelated thought was enough to push her over the edge. She let a sob escape her lips and slid to the kitchen floor. A more serious whimper threatened to burst through. _No, not now. I don’t want to cry now._

The fireplace suddenly blazed up into a bright green, and in a second, Hermione was off the floor. She grasped onto her torn shirt defensively with one hand, and pulled her wand out with the other. _“Who’s there?”_ Her voice cracked terribly.

_Oh, if it is one of those pricks again!_

“—Hermione?”

The voice was uncertain, but Hermione’s startled eyebrows rose in recognition. She lowered her wand, quickly grabbed a jacket from a coat hanger at the front door, and threw it over herself as she headed into the living room. No one had stepped out of the Floo, but a face was faintly showing from within the blazing green coals.

“Ginny?”

She moved towards the fireplace.

“Are you alright?” the red-head asked in concern from the other end of the Floo call. “You sounded upset.”

“I—I’m fine,” Hermione stumbled over her response, wiping the tears quickly off her cheeks before sitting down near the flames. The absurdity of the situation quickly dawned on her. All this time, and she hadn’t wondered what it would be like to face Ginny after having slept with her husband. The blissfully ignorant witch was now excitedly telling her about getting a job with the Sports section of the Daily Prophet, but Hermione still felt nothing about what she’d done.

_What is happening to me?_

“So you know,” Ginny was saying with a shy smile, her image in the flames moving as she hooked a hair over her ear. “Just wanted to check in on you, and let you know that I’m employed again.”

Hermione tried not to hesitate as she said her congratulations. She wasn’t supposed to know that Dean would now be her new co-worker, or what strain that placed on her marriage with Harry. It was then that she realised that she hadn’t spoken to her since she had left James’ birthday party early. No, she hadn’t spoken to Ginny since she blew her top over a bloody name change, _and then_ slept with Harry.

 _By God, I slept with_ Ginny's  _husband!_ How _on Earth_ did that thought take so long to take hold?

“I’m sorry about the other night,” Hermione quickly added with lowered eyes, unconsciously adjusting the jacket on herself to hide her state of undress. There was so much more that she had to apologise for, but she couldn’t bring herself to bring it up. Not without consulting Harry. Not when her head was in such a fucked up place right now.

“No, it’s alright,” Ginny said, waving a hand across her face. “I understand. she was being a bitch.”

“Who—oh.” _Pansy. Right, Pansy._ Her conscience stirred even more with the parallels.

“Yeah, I don’t think she’s good for Ron,” Ginny continued to say. “What do you think?”

Hermione didn’t want to think about Pansy right now, not when the witch reminded her of her male Slytherin cohort. “I don’t know,” she answered absently, still bothered by her own indifference, her betrayal.

“I don’t … particularly like her, obviously, but I wouldn’t know anything about how she is for him.”

She was also getting a headache from the complicated web of relationships that she suddenly found herself in. _How on earth did Pansy and Ron end up together anyway? Where does Zabini even stand in this? Why does he care? Is he into Malfoy? He sure as hell isn’t into me. Whatever the hell he thinks he feels towards me—God._  She blushed at the memory of the tent in Draco Malfoy’s pants. _Is he into voyeurism? Was that what Zabini was trying to do?_ Use her to arouse— _Ah no, ew!_

“Maybe you should talk to him.”

“Wha— _Malfoy?”_

“Huh?”

Hermione blushed. “Oh, sorry, nothing, I got a little distracted—it’s work related—” _So_ totally not work related. She was shuddering again, actively trying to keep thoughts of her revisit to the manor out of her mind.

“You’re _working_ with Draco Malfoy?”

It was Ginny’s turn to sound incredulous.

Hermione groaned. _Yes, yes I am._

“Long story … ” she began to say, but realised that she couldn’t talk about what happened. No, she was already trembling at the thought. “ He’s … working with me on a new executive order Kingsley and I are trying to pass. Sorry.” The words weren’t coming easily. “It’s been a long day.”

Ginny was silent through Hermione’s clumsy explanation. She studied her face curiously, which, really, gave very limited information through the coarse-grained Floo visuals. Briefly, she contemplated going over, but something about Hermione’s posture seemed guarded, uncomfortable, and Ginny was pushy, but not _that_ obtrusive. She sighed in defeat. Ever since she had tried to interfere in her divorce with Ron, both her brother and her now former sister-in-law had become rather emotionally distant, especially Hermione, who stopped confiding in her as often. It made Ginny sad.

“I … was saying that it would be good for you, to have a proper talk with Ron,” she urged again, lowering her gaze as she twiddled her thumbs. Calling Hermione today was as much to share her good news, as it was to try and mend some remaining hurt feelings from _that_ mess. So far though, Ginny felt like she was failing at getting through, but she was still hopeful for the couple. “It’d be good for both of you.”

 _Right. We were talking about Ronald and my failed marriage, and his new beau, who’s Malfoy’s old beau—UGHH!_  It just seemed impossible to put aside thoughts about the Slytherin men.

“I don’t think there’s much else to talk about,” she said, frowning as her thoughts now turned to Ron. Her mind was doing something strange now, mixing memories of their past, when they were happy, with memories of that afternoon, when she began to feel the effects of Blaise’s drug. Flashes of Ron and her having screaming matches now interspersed with the still very painful but satisfying sensation of beating up Blaise, and all of that with Ron’s final adultery slapped on top—Hermione felt the cold sweat running down her back. She shook off all the insane visions. _Get a grip, girl._

“She had a point though,” Hermione breathed, trying to regain some sense of reality. “I should change my legal name back to Granger.” Even Draco Malfoy had been calling her that all day long. It made her feel funny.

Ginny made a flustered sound. “You don’t need to listen to her.”

Hermione shook her head.

“It’s not about—”

“Seriously, ‘Mione, ignore that bitch and tell him how you feel.”

Now she didn’t understand.

“How _do_ I feel?” Hermione asked. She didn’t like how Ginny was using Ron’s nickname for her either. It brought back a strange feeling, something akin to nostalgia and disgust. 

“Don’t you want to—” Ginny paused, suddenly not sure if she’d been misreading Hermione all this time. “Aren’t you mad at him for being with her?”

Well, that was an understatement.

“I could help you break them up if you want?” The red-head offered, with a cheekiness that reminded Hermione of the Weasley twins. It made her smile with nostalgia for Fred. They all missed him so much. George, in particular, hadn’t been the same since he left.

“Thank you,” Hermione chuckled under her breath, though moving her hand side to side to indicate that Ginny didn’t need to do that. “But I honestly don’t know if I care at this point—don’t get me wrong!” Ginny looked so horrified, Hermione softened her words. “I didn’t mean to say that I don’t care about Ron.”

Still, she didn’t want to give the false impression that she wanted to reconcile with him, romantically speaking, which seemed to have been on the younger Weasley’s mind, as Hermione noticed how difficult it was to discuss anything related to Ron with her.

"What I meant is, whether he’s with Pansy or not, it doesn’t change a thing for me.”

Ginny bit her lip. She looked as if she wanted to say something, but James made a sound of distress in the background right at that moment.

Ginny turned away from the flames briefly, cooing back. “He’s been a little under the weather,” she revealed, changing the topic with just a hint of discomfort in her worried smile. “But he said dada today.”

Hermione smiled back, though now her mind was drifting to Harry.

“I hope he’s okay,” she said. “What were his first words again?”

The baby made a loud cry then, and Ginny rushed off momentarily to check on him. Hermione wondered if Harry wasn’t home yet. Her smile dimmed at the thought of Ginny finding out what she’d done with him.

_Would she forgive me?_

Even if she did, which was hard enough to imagine, would the Weasleys still welcome her, now that Hermione was truly no longer a member of their family? No, she didn’t want to imagine any of it.

“Sorry, his toy fell to the floor.” Ginny didn’t seem to have noticed Hermione’s increased discomposure when she came back into view. James was now laughing in the background, jangling something.

“Must be a handful, taking care of him,” Hermione mused distractedly.

Ginny laughed. “Yes, but it’s fun. Every day we learn something new. Though, you’re right, it’s a lot of work.” She turned away briefly, as if caught up by a thought.

Hermione knew that she was worried.

“Will Molly be helping more from now on?”

Ginny smiled sadly as she turned back to the fireplace. “Yeah. It’s going to be rough, not being with him as often. I feel bad bothering mum too.” She turned away briefly again, looking up at something.

“He isn’t going to be home anytime soon,” she sighed, turning back to the fireplace. “Auror office reports are due in the next week or so, you know.”

Hermione nodded, remembering that she had to submit hers to Kingsley soon too. But first, she’d have to talk to him about Draco’s museum deal, and Blaise— _No!_ She had just managed to forget about _that_ a moment ago.

She tried to distract herself by focusing on Ginny, her voice shaking a little. “You must be … anxious to tell him about your job offer—What is it?” The red-head was giving her such a curious look. There was something else there too. Disappointment. Shame.

“Don’t get mad again, Hermione,” Ginny fumbled, looking down at her hands. “But sometimes, I wish that we could have been confused mothers together … Maybe we could’ve worried about things together then, and it wouldn’t seem so bad.”

Hermione felt her lips quiver. Memories of Blaise’s unwanted advances blurred with something else, something worse that she didn’t want to think about anymore.

“I’m sorry,” Ginny whispered, realising she’d gone too far. Hermione quickly shook her head, even though it wasn’t okay. Ginny had been one of the few people who knew how Hermione felt about having children.

Someone knocked then.

They thought that it was on Ginny’s end, but both quickly realised that it was Hermione’s front door.

“I … got to go,” Hermione said, suddenly realising that she was grateful to end this conversation. 

Ginny nodded, looking curious. She tried to peer around the corner to no avail. “Are you seeing someone?”

“Me?” Hermione blushed. She looked at the clock. Certainly, it was approaching dinner time, and Ginny’s assumption wasn’t way out of line at this hour. Harry flashed pass her mind, but she quickly pushed the thought away.

“No, no. I’m not,” she said hurriedly. “It’s probably just the mail man, I ordered some stuff online.” Well, it couldn’t possibly be the mail man actually. It was past seven now.

“‘Online’?”

“Muggle stuff—anyway, I’ll talk to you later. And—” she paused, looking at her friend, who still looked rather apologetic. Hermione wondered if a day would come when talking about Ron wouldn’t be so awkward. She wondered too if Ginny would forgive her, if she and Harry decided to tell her what they’d done.

“—I’m happy for you,” she finished. “I know how much you wanted to be working again.”

“Thank you, 'Mione," a genuine smile touched Ginny's lips. "I’m looking forward to starting next week. We’ll catch up again soon?”

 _Yes, soon,_ Hermione answered quietly, as Ron’s nickname for her hovered in the air long after the line went dead.

#

“Oh—hey.”

“Hey,” Harry greeted, looking a little shy.

Hermione tried to smile, but it came out a little stiff. After everything that had happened already today, his visit really took her off guard. 

“What’s this?” he asked. She saw his eyes trail downwards and followed his gaze to see that he was toeing a parcel about the size of a shoe box.

“Oh.” She knelt down hurriedly and picked up the package. "Just some stuff I ordered online," she said, opening the door wider to let him in.

He followed inside with an eyebrow raised.

“For an Emmaline Duerre?”

“Yeah, Kingsley picked it for me,” Hermione explained with a small laugh. “Said it’d afford me more privacy. I quite like the name, actually.” She placed the box on the kitchen counter, which she realized was still a mess from her earlier search for an antidote. Hermione started putting away the condiments and potions, including the half consumed chocolate bar. Talking to Ginny had been consuming enough for her to move pass her emotions, for now.

“Tea?” she asked, turning on the burner to heat the kettle. Harry nodded appreciatively, though a little bewildered by her cluttered kitchen. Hermione was usually very well organised.

“It is a nice name,” Harry mused, looking around like he was expecting someone. “Did I hear Ginny’s voice earlier?”

“Oh,” Hermione said, looking up. He turned just in time to notice that she was blushing a little, before she turned away again to resume her cleaning. “Yes, we were talking over the Floo … Aren’t you supposed to be at work?” Ginny had certainly sounded like she was waiting for him to be home.

“I'm done for the day. I heard from—” he glanced at the fireplace and then the clock, and suddenly remembered his promise to his wife. “Right, she wanted me to fix the shower tonight.” He’d completely forgotten about it after seeing Kingsley.

Hermione heard the flustered tone in his voice, and wondered what brought him here at this hour of the night. It didn’t sound like something horrible had happened between them again. Ginny wouldn’t have been so calm if that were the case. Lost in her thoughts, she wiped down the counter on autopilot after everything was put away, and turned to her bedroom next, suddenly feeling the desperate need to get back to whatever she was feeling before Ginny’s call.

“You should get going then,” she said, still sounding a little discombobulated. “Feel free to use the Floo.” All she wanted to do now was curl into a ball in the shower, or something. Just, be alone. She could barely keep it together as it was. Her head was starting to swim.

Harry found her distant attitude disarming. She wasn’t even asking him what he was doing visiting.

She was also still avoiding his gaze.

“Hermione.” He touched her arm, and was surprised by how violently she shuddered to his touch. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“No, it’s alright,” she stammered, pulling the jacket on her a little tighter. “I just thought—”

Harry’s frown deepened when she didn’t finish her sentence and began to move towards her bedroom again.

“What happened at the manor?”

Hermione froze. How was it that everyone knew where she was?

“Kingsley?” she asked shakily, with her back still facing Harry.

He nodded, which she didn’t see, but his silence was answer enough. Hermione groaned into her hands. She was sure now that her boss was responsible too for Blaise knowing her whereabouts.

“Did you … not want me to know?” she heard Harry ask. Hermione did have a habit of confronting things head on, and on her own. Though, Harry of all people wasn’t in any position to reprimand her for that. She shook her head, rearranging the jacket again to make sure her torn shirt underneath wasn’t showing. She hoped he hadn’t noticed.

“I just didn’t want to jinx it,” she said in a hushed tone, “until I was sure that he was on board with it.”

Harry could understand that. “Bet he was easy to convince.”

Hermione gave a light sarcastic chuckle as she turned around to face him.

“Not even going to hide your skepticism, are you?”

Harry shrugged. It wasn’t any secret how he felt about Draco Malfoy, but his questioning look remained.

Hermione sighed as she leaned against the doorframe of her bedroom. She didn’t really want to talk about how things went, or what happened. Not now, anyway. She didn’t even want to be in her own body right now.

She settled with mirroring him and giving an indifferent shrug.

Harry knitted his brows with disapproval, so she added, “It was fine.”

But it wasn’t like her to not explain every minute detail of her frustrations with Malfoy, which he was sure there was plenty.

“Are you sure,” he began to say, but faltered as soon as he saw the way she tightened her grip around her arms. “I mean … considering what had happened last time we were there, you know.”

Of course, she had felt all the things that he was thinking about, all the things that she carried within her still, which was why she had accepted Draco’s offer. But all of that already felt like a lifetime ago. So much had happened in the last few hours.

 _Too fucking much, in fact._  

Blood rushed to her head. No, she couldn’t think about _that_ right now. She turned into her bedroom again, and Harry was about to follow her, but paused when the kettle began to whistle. They’d both long forgotten about making tea. After he’d turned off the burner, he glanced at Hermione’s bedroom door, and saw that it was still slightly open.

She wasn’t entirely closing him off, he understood that. It somehow made him nervous, though the feeling was easily superseded by his concern for her wellbeing. He walked cautiously to her door.

“Hey,” he said, careful not to cross the boundary, even as he glanced at her bed and recalled having sex with her on it just nights ago. His heartbeat quickened as he remembered his quandary, which became clear to him in the elevator, but he was admittedly more concerned now that she was idly picking up dirty laundry from the floor and pretending to not have heard him.

“You can tell me,” he said more softly. “Honest.”

Hermione didn’t stop cleaning her room, even though his concern for her drove out the loneliness within her, even momentarily. And yet, all she could think about when she considered voicing her problems to him was how she was holding him up from his family.

“Look, I’m fine, really,” she insisted. “You should go home."

Her words hurt, and he wasn't even sure why. Of course he should go home. Why was he visiting her in the middle of the night anyway? After what happened between them? What was he thinking?

Hermione was still saying, "Ginny wants to tell you in person—”

His eyebrows rose. “She got the job then?”

Hermione turned to him, looking rather astonished.

“Well,” Harry said with a small, knowing smile. “She called you, didn’t she?”

Hermione smiled back then, lightening up a little. It was true. Ginny usually kept bad news to herself, like the whole Dean thing with Harry, which she didn’t once mention in their Floo call. She noticed then that Harry was withdrawing into his thoughts again. He had the same look of concern on him that he had, when he showed up at her office with those photos. He looked so emotionally worn out.

“Are you going to be okay?”

Harry met her sympathetic gaze, and sensed the multiple meanings in her question. He gave her a tentative nod, even though he wasn’t sure if he would be okay, really. He had more to consider now, beyond Ginny, James, Dean. He drank in the silhouette of the woman before him, and realized that it was impossible for him now to pretend that she wasn't attractive as hell. She was still the Hermione he knew before last weekend. She was a smart, rational, passionate, empathetic, and self-sufficient woman, yes, he knew all of that already, but she was also a living, breathing, sexual being, whom had allowed him to see a carnal side of her that he hadn't even ever dared to imagine. And now that confident woman was looking so uncomfortable and defensive in her shell, more so than she had been when Pansy had rudely called her out at James' birthday dinner. 

She was still holding onto her jacket, he noticed, which was strange, since she looked as if she’d been home for a while already. It wasn’t particularly cold in her apartment either. Glancing over her frame, he noticed that her hair was tousled and tangled in parts, something he had not seen since being in bed with her the other night. Harry turned crimson as he found himself imagining her grinding on top of him again, moaning in pleasure.

_What the fuck, man. STOP._

He thought about Ginny at home, and James, and felt ashamed for his insatiable desire for something that wasn’t his to have. He then looked at his closest friend again, and saw that she looked miserable and vulnerable, like he hadn’t seen in a long time. Yet, here she was, asking if _he_ would be okay. Lord, when he had become so selfish?

Hesitantly, he stepped into her bedroom and approached her. At first, Hermione looked like she wanted to flee, but when she resigned to his mindful touch on her shoulder, Harry gained conviction in his stance.

“Never mind me," he said, firmly, "Give me something more than 'fine', Hermione. There's no way meeting Malfoy for the first time in years can be 'fine'." 

Tears welled in Hermione’s eyes, but she was quick to blink them off. She was also trying her hardest not to suddenly pull away from him, but also not—Merlin, she had to at least admit it to herself—to want that incredibly familiar comfort from him. No, if she were truly, brutally honest, she wanted much more than that. She wanted to jump his bones, right here, right now, but _by God,_ one reckless act was beyond enough. It was hard enough facing Ginny earlier. She wiped her eyes.

“I just ... need to go blow off some steam,” she finally said, moving away from him. It was probably a better idea than crying in the shower stall. “Don’t worry.”

Of course, that only worried him more. “Blow off steam where,” he asked tersely, unhappy that she was being so obtuse.

Hermione gulped, realising that she’d never told him about her sporadic escapades.

“Just … one of the clubs, down a few blocks,” she said vaguely.

Harry raised an eyebrow, hardly able to imagine her taking such a risk, considering the paparazzi’s interest in her private life. Even he had come here in his invisibility cloak this evening, to avoid rumours.

“It’s alright,” she waved off his obvious concern. “I go in disguise.”

He narrowed his eyes to that. “Polyjuice?” But that seemed like a lot of work just for some fun.

She shook her head. “Glamour. It’s effective enough.”

To demonstrate, she pulled out her wand and waved it over herself. Golden sparks emitted from the tip of her wand and swirled around her.

When the sparkles vanished, Harry couldn’t help but marvel at how stunningly different she was in disguise. Under glamour, Hermione still had a very similar figure, but her brunette curls were now replaced by straight black hair that cascaded down her back, all the way to her waist. Her eyes were a lighter honey brown, which looked mysterious against her now glowing olive skin. If he squinted, he could somewhat tell that the gorgeous woman before him was Hermione Granger, but it wouldn’t have been possible from a passing glance.

He wasn’t sure if he would be able to recognise her even after several glances, and he was one of her oldest friends.

Hermione hummed thoughtfully when she saw Harry’s jaw slack. She turned to look at her transformed image in the mirror, and a genuine smile graced her lips, mostly from a sense of relief, even as tears streamed down her cheeks. She wiped them off with the sleeve of her jacket and straightened up. She looked so good, so different, it made her feel so empowered with almost a brand new identity, at least for now.

“Right,” she announced with a clap. “I think I will head out to town then.” She saw the way that Harry was looking at her again. “I’m fine, Harry. Really,” she said reassuringly. “Just want to clear my mind.”

Said the woman who just said that she needed to let off steam after visiting a traumatic place. Harry didn’t think so.

“I don’t know. I’m not sure this is a good way to deal with … whatever it was that happened.”

He wished that she’d just tell him, but he didn’t expect to ruffle her feathers with his words. Her eyes flashed in anger.

“This, as in, what? Sleeping with people I’m not committed to?”

Harry’s cheeks flushed, but Hermione didn’t take it back. She had had enough with men telling her what to do with her body. Walking into her large closet, she grabbed a flaring black skirt and a soft sleeveless blouse. She slid the door half shut, and quickly peeled off the jacket and offending work clothes, which had lost quite a few buttons from the altercation earlier that day. Harry turned away when he realised that she was getting changed, even though he couldn’t really see her inside the closet. He didn’t miss, however, her throwing the clothes that she had been wearing into a corner, awfully close to her waste bin. _How strange_ , he thought. And he felt horrible, but couldn’t quite put into words what he felt was so horrible.

“Are you … mad at me?” he finally asked, with his back still turned to her.

She stopped mid-way through pulling on her top, realising that she’d accused him unintentionally. She hadn’t even asked him why he had come to see her, because she had come to assume that he was there only to ask about Malfoy. She recognised then that she could have been wrong.

“No,” she said apologetically as she wrapped her arms around herself again, poking her head out the closet with an arm over her chest, even though she was pretty much fully clothed already.

She watched him as he slowly turned to face her, that look of concern now doubled with anxiety.

“I’m sorry,” she continued to say. “I didn’t mean it like that … I completely understand that what we had the other night was a one off thing,” though she wished it weren’t true.

A strange expression crossed his face, but it was gone before Hermione could decipher it. Harry suddenly looked distracted, and Hermione lowered her gaze as well, caught up in her own thoughts. She finished zipping up her skirt, and exited her walk-in closet.

“Like I said, it was important for me regardless, even though now when I think about Ginny—” her voice trailed away, not only because she felt guilty, but also because she badly wanted his touch, and she couldn’t possibly ask that of him. Harry looked like he understood. He looked deeply embarrassed at the mentioning of his wife.

“But I wasn’t referring to us when I said that,” Hermione finally said. “I’m sorry for snapping at you.”

Harry still looked doubtful.

"What _did_ you mean by that then?”

Hermione inhaled and exhaled with some trouble. She would have to admit to a lot more if she wanted him to understand. “I’ve been experimenting,” she said cautiously. Harry raised his eyebrow just a touch.

“Since the divorce,” she continued to explain, “I’ve been sleeping around, having one time flings. Figuring out … what feels good.” She’d never told a soul until now, and it was unnerving to say it out loud for the first time.

She blushed when Harry’s lips formed a tiny “oh”. He understood now.

 _Well,_ he quietly noted to himself, _that explains the discrepancy between my experience and Ron’s description of their sex life._

“Do you judge me for that?” Hermione asked. She was so uncharacteristically nervous as she moved towards the kitchen counter again, this time to open her package, which turned out to be filled with muggle accessories and cosmetics. Harry watched as she picked out a perfume sample and spritzed it on her neck and inner wrists.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. An alluring scent of turkish rose slowly wafted to his end of the room. He was momentarily disoriented. “No, I—I just, didn’t expect it.”

He was spellbound by how unfamiliarly seductive she looked, with the stilettos that she was strapping on over her fishnet tights, and a leather jacket thrown over her shoulder.

“So are you—” He felt his throat run dry. He couldn’t tell her that it aroused him, to imagine her having sex, even with complete strangers, who weren’t him. Merlin, his wild imaginations were spontaneous at this point.

Hermione paused mid-shoelace tying.

“I don’t know,” she confessed. “I just want to go out, but,” she remembered how filthy she felt, when Blaise touched her. “I don’t think I’m … looking for some stranger tonight.” She avoided looking at him. Avoided imagining running her hands over his toned body. 

“Just … probably going to grab a drink, dance,” she said absently as she finished tying her laces. "I’m fairly certainly it’s Latin Night down at one of the clubs.”

She wasn’t sure if doing this would really help, but she’d just have to give it a go. Harry, though, wasn’t able to wrap his head around the idea of her dancing at a club alone. She must know what she was doing, to have kept this to herself all this time, but tonight of all nights, Harry was uneasy with the idea of leaving her to herself. He glanced at the clock on the wall again.

“I can join you for an hour or two?” he suggested.

Hermione looked up to him with surprise. She saw a very familiar stubborn determination in his eyes, which she found intriguing, knowing that clubbing wasn’t really something he was normally interested in. She smiled to herself as she finished tying her shoes. He was such a protector by nature.

“Alright,” she assented. A couple hours in a public place was definitely safer for her impulses than being at home alone with him. She raised her wand again as she stood up. Harry’s eyes widened at the mischievous glint in her eye, as he, too, realised what she planned to do. A golden sparkle radiated from the tip of her wand.

“We’d have to give you a disguise too then,” she said, suddenly enjoying the idea of taking him out.

#

“I’m not sure, I still feel like people might recognise me.”

“You’re fine,” Hermione chuckled as they approached the bouncer. She pulled out her muggle ID for an _Emmaline Duerre_. “If Superman can go under disguise by putting on a pair of glasses, no one would be able to tell with you looking like that.”

Harry swallowed as he pulled out his fake ID too, which Hermione had transfigured for him earlier. He ran a nervous hand through his short chestnut brown hair as the bouncer checked his photo, only to realise that his hair was now so uncharacteristically neat, that any ruffling would mess it up. He stroked his fringes towards his forehead self-consciously, but then remembered too that his lightning bolt scar was not visible under glamour. For the first time in his life, he had no reason to hide his scar under his hair. It felt strange.

As he walked into the nightclub, a powerful fragrance much like the one you’d find at an Abercrombie & Fitch store hit his nose. The collar of the dress shirt that Hermione had transfigured for him too suddenly felt tight around his neck.

“ _Jacob_!” someone called.

Momentarily disoriented by the dancing disco lights as well, Harry had to look around to see where Hermione had gone.

“Come on, _Jacob_ ,” she called to him from the bar with a giggle.

“Right,” he said, remembering then that it was his fake name.

“You know,” she whispered teasingly as he approached her looking uncomfortable as ever. “The whole point _is_ to pretend you’re someone else.” She stroked his thick facial hair, which had been somewhat patchy before the glamour, (“Have you been too busy to shave lately?” she’d asked,) and smiled looking into his now mesmerisingly blue eyes. He looked quite different just like that. Not wearing his signature round glasses helped.

Harry cleared his throat a little irritatedly. “I’m trying to get used to it,” he grumbled, though he quite liked her touching his face. It felt a little ticklish. Glancing at the rum based cocktail that the bartender was passing on to her, he thought that it was funny that she’d still ordered what the real Hermione would like. They were only trying to hide their identities from wizarding folk after all.

“An Old Fashioned please,” he requested. Hermione smiled to herself then, remembering that the bourbon drink was his go-to.

“We used to go to the Leakey a lot, didn’t we?” she reminisced. She felt more relaxed now. It was a good idea to go out after all.

“Hmm,” Harry hummed, drumming at the bar table with his fingers. “Yeah, the last time was probably before Ginny got pregnant, so … it’s been a while, huh?”

That sounded about right. “Things weren’t so bad back then,” Hermione said softly, stirring her Daiquiri.

Harry took a glance at her. It was strange, still, to turn and see such an attractive stranger, but know that it was also _her_. A part of him wished that they were just grabbing drinks without disguises, like the way they had used to at the Leakey Cauldron, but another part of him was strangely excited by this unusually secretive circumstance. He found it hard to look her in the eye though. Even as they were discussing something serious, he couldn’t help but imagine what it would be like to kiss her now. _Would her lips feel different?_ Harry tried his best to drive the distracting thoughts away.

“When did it … become bad?”

She tensed at his question. Hermione eventually shook her head, but didn’t hurry to answer. Harry watched her gather her long, dark silky hair onto her shoulder, and found himself staring at her neckline as her hands slipped back down to the wooden counter. He suddenly felt parched, and something stirred deep inside him, but the bartender disrupted his thoughts when she set down his order, right on time. The brisk lady took the cash and was gone again. It was a busy night.

“I don’t know, to be honest,” Hermione confessed finally. They moved to a less crowded spot with their drinks. “Though our fights escalated probably around then.”

“When Ginny got pregnant?”

Harry was a little surprised. He didn’t remember there being any tension during that time, but he realised that he had also probably been too busy celebrating to notice. Everyone in the Weasley family was overjoyed, he had thought. Clearly, something wasn’t going well even then.

Hermione smiled a little as she clinked her glass against his and turned away to watch the dancing crowd. She tried to hide her discomfort. After all, she’d hidden this part of her disagreements with Ron really well from Harry in the last two years. She wasn’t sure if she could burden him with such knowledge now.

“I felt bad earlier,” she said, changing the topic. “When she called me.”

Harry paled.

“Did she … say anything?”

Hermione shook her head.

“You haven’t told her, have you?” she asked, turning to look at him in the eye.

He met her gaze and shook his head, too. They searched in each other’s eyes for the many words still left unsaid between them, but found no need to speak out loud the guilt that they felt, or the longing. They were all there, plain to see. Suddenly, the heartache that had been bothering Harry all day began to act up again, but Hermione quickly broke eye contact. A bitter smile returned more openly to her lips, like she had reached some sort of conclusion on her own.

“I guess we should have thought about how we would feel now,” she spoke quietly, staring into her cocktail, “before we snogged each other.”

Harry felt like shit for lusting after her even as she was talking about how wrong it was.

“I’m sorry I dragged you into my mess,” he said in shame.

Hermione glanced over. He had a death grip on his drink, and under his furrowed brows, his bright glamoured eyes danced dangerously in the disco light. She knew that look of apprehension and self-blame from many years by his side. There were very few things that she hated more than him blaming himself like he was solely responsible. Harry did that a lot.

She slipped a hand gently over his whitened knuckles. “You were there to check in on me too, remember?” Harry tensed at her touch, so Hermione slid her hand back to her barely touched drink. Touching each other never used to be awkward, but now they were both more cautious. It was a little depressing. Hermione wondered if she was thinking too much.

“We didn’t go into it thinking we’d—you know,” suddenly it was hard for her to be blunt about what they did. “But … I really had no excuse sleeping with my friend’s husband, had I?” She wasn’t really asking. She was also still not looking at him.

“I’m sure she’d forgive you, given the circumstances, but ... ”

He could tell that she was mad at herself now. They really were so alike in many ways.

“I’m not sure,” Harry interrupted with an admission, though rather hesitantly. “I mean—she’s mad at me right now.” He cleared his throat uncomfortably as Hermione gave him a quizzical look. “I, uh,” he thought about his awkward interactions with his wife just that morning. “I haven’t been able to make myself … available to her since.”

Hermione’s eyes widened, and then quickly turned away to stare off at a random spot in the crowd. If Harry wasn’t so embarrassed himself, he would have noticed that her cheeks had reddened slightly.

“Is it because of what we—”

“No!” he was quick to correct her. “Well … yes, a little.”

He blushed harder as he felt her eyes on him. Hermione fumbled with the rim of her glass before quickly taking a mouthful to settle her nerves. She’d fantasised about him, too, in the last few days, so she didn’t blame him, but all of her playful desires had also been erased easily by what happened earlier that day. Now all she wanted was to feel safe again, and it was maddening that feeling safe was exactly what Harry could give her, but they weren’t supposed to be intimate with each other in _that_ way. That was the whole point of getting married to someone you love, someone you call a life partner, and Harry was very much married to someone else.

And not just anyone else, but her long time friend and former sister-in-law.

Dear Lord, she was _so_ fucked.

They’d been drinking when they ended up making out the other night. Alcohol had messed her up earlier that day as well. Drinking again with Harry was probably unwise, but Hermione took another mouthful anyway. The alcohol certainly made her feel better.

If numb counted as better.

Oblivious to her inner struggles, Harry took a sip of his drink too and continued to divulge on his domestic troubles with Ginny.

“She thinks I’m punishing her, even though it’s not ... I guess, she’s not entirely wrong.”

“She, what?” Hermione suddenly felt hot under the collar.

“Asked if I’m punishing ... why?”

Hermione took a large gulp of her daiquiri.

“Wow, wow, Herm— _Emmaline_.” Harry looked around nervously, though they were obviously out of any magical folk’s earshot. “Take it slow.”

Hermione ignored him and finished off the rest of her drink.

“ ... Ron used to say that.”

“What?”

She shook her head. She wasn’t supposed to tell him. And she remembered Blaise again. The way he had violated something sacred to her, in front of her old enemy— _and_ potential new colleague, no less—adding insult to injury. She never wanted them to see her so vulnerable, so at the mercy of her carnal instincts, but it was too late now.

“Why did he say that?” Harry asked again, a little scared to know. This was a side of her that he rarely saw these days, even when she had revealed to him that she wanted to divorce Ron. She was so depressed then. She was so angry now.

Hermione shook her head firmly.

“No,” she said, walking to the bar with her now empty glass. “I don’t want to talk about that. Can I have a gin and tonic, please. Miss!” she called over the counter. “Gin and tonic!” The bartender gave her a dirty look and came over to pour her a drink quickly, before going off again to satisfy other customers.

Hermione took a sip. “Ugh, this is more tonic than gin,” she complained with a scowl.

Harry tried to cover her glass. “Seriously, Hermione,” he hissed under his breath, “Take it easy. Let’s just talk—”

“No,” she said again, pushing his hand away and gulping down half of her second glass. The DJ was playing a steamy reggaeton that she knew, and she wanted to head to the dance floor. Harry made to follow her, but she pressed him down into a seat. In the background, a female voice chuckled over the soundtrack, and a sexy male voice began to sing in Spanish over a steady tropical beat.

 _Dale, sin miedo  
_ _Arriésgate y sígueme el juego_

“Take your time,” Hermione insisted. Harry hadn’t even gone through a quarter of his first drink.

 _Sola, creo  
_ _Di a tus amigas hasta luego_

“I can come now—”

 _No des explicaciones, solo vente  
_ _Que tu mente es malvada, eso yo lo sé_

She stopped him as he raised his glass to his lips.

 _En tu mirada yo lo puedo ver  
_ _Te mata mi estilo y eso yo lo sé_

“Don’t go home drunk,” she pleaded, suddenly sounding serious. Harry hesitated.

 _Vamo' a romper la disco rampapampam  
_ _Baila que no te he visto pampapampam_

He was about to say he can give up on his drink, but she had already sauntered to the dance floor, winding to the song.

 _Porque tú eras lo que yo soñé  
_ _No perdamos el tiempo pampapampam_

The ecstatic feeling of alcohol coursing through her body made Hermione sigh in relief as she threw herself into the chorus, bopping to the music with the other young, intoxicated people on the dance floor.

_(I need you) Hey mama, hey mama, hey mama, hey ma_

_(I need you) Hey mama, hey mama, hey mama, hey ma_

The sexual tension in the air was palpable. A tall hunky stranger moved close and danced with her, making Harry a little nervous, but she slipped away as quickly as he approached her.

_Girl, it's getting hotter, I can't take much more_

_(I need you) Hey mama, hey mama, hey mama, hey ma_

_(I need you)_

He couldn’t sit around idly for long. By the time the song reached the bridge, he’d practically chugged the rest of his bourbon without giving it much thought. He was more focused on worrying that he’d lose track of Hermione.

_(I need you) Hey mama, hey mama, hey mama, hey ma_

It became a legitimate concern soon enough, as the next R&B song proved really popular. Suddenly the floor was packed, and she disappeared into the crowd.

 _I don’t know if you could take it_  
_Know you wanna see me naked, naked, naked_  
_I wanna be your baby, baby, baby  
_ _Spinning and it’s wet just like it came from Maytag_

Harry felt unusually nervous as he waded through throngs of sweaty bodies looking for her. He wasn’t used to the clubbing scene, and he berated himself when he realise that he was looking for curly brown hair. _She’s under glamour, you dim wit._

 _White girl wasted on that brown liquor_  
_When I get like this I can’t be around you_  
_I’m too lit to dim down a notch  
_ _‘Cause I could name some things that I’m gon’ do_

There she was, swaying her hips and moving smoothly to the mid-tempo track. Her eyes were blissfully closed, and a half-smile was playing on her lips as she sang the flirtatious lyrics. 

 _Wild, wild, wild  
_ _Wild, wild, wild thoughts_

She caught sight of him trying to squeeze his way through to her. “Hey,” she said through heavy eyelids, beckoning him with her finger. Harry was sure that he was losing his mind. She looked like a stranger seducing him with that almost wicked smile.

 _Wild, wild, wild  
_ _When I’m with you, all I get is wild thoughts_

He looked like a stranger to her too in the dancing neon lights. A stranger that she can trust. Under glamour and the influence of alcohol, self-consciousness soon went out the window. It felt good dancing without caring what people thought of them. Harry began to feel the music too.

 _Wild, wild, wild  
_ _When I’m with you, all I get is wild thoughts_

He pretended to play the song’s signature guitar riff, making Hermione laugh until she was in tears. Their footwork got messier as the alcohol went to their heads, while the dense crowd around them squeezed them even closer.

 _I hope you know I’m for the takin'_  
_You know this cookie’s for the bakin'_  
_Kitty, kitty, baby give that thing some rest  
_ _‘Cause you done beat it like the ’68 Jets_

She presented him her hand, asking for a dance. Through his hazy intoxication, Harry took her hand with a lopsided smile and thought that she was going to twirl around, but she surprised him when she pulled him close and placed his hand on her waist instead.

 _Diamonds ain’t nothing when I’m rockin’ with ya  
_ _Diamonds ain’t nothing when I’m shinin’ with ya_

He gulped nervously as his growing hard-on got pressed up against her thigh. He wasn’t sure whether to look her in the eye, afraid that she would be disgusted and run away.

 _Just keep it white and black as if I’m ya sista  
_ _I’m too hip to hop around town out here with ya_

But she wasn’t, and only moved to show him that she wasn’t going to grind into him. It was like they were dancing in the tent again, with their arms around each other but keeping that distance. Except there was knowledge now of what they were missing out on, and knowing it made their abstinence a lot harder than before. Harry was surely straining from the painful erection that he was trying to keep down.

 _I know I get wild, wild, wild  
_ _Wild, wild, wild thoughts_

He wondered if she really understood how hard it was for him to be this close to her and not grind into her like he wanted to, but she nestled her face into the crook of his neck, seemingly relaxed in his arms.

 _Wild, wild, wild  
_ _When I’m with you, all I get is wild thoughts_

He didn’t know how comfortably turned on she really was. As they swayed to the music, she closed her eyes and hummed the soothingly sexy music in the background. It felt so nice to be in his arms, she’d snuggle with him like this all night if she can.

 _Wild, wild, wild  
_ _When I’m with you, all I get is wild thoughts_

Even over the strong ambient aroma that the nightclub effused, the musky smell of cigarettes, alcohol, and sweat still filled Harry’s senses. It wasn't his favorite smell, so he leaned into Hermione’s neck, breathing in instead the pleasant but unfamiliar perfume that she had on. He'd never found the smell of roses particularly attractive, but his heartbeat quickened regardless as she squeeze him closer around his neck, closing their physical distance. Harry gently squeezed her on the waist too, keeping his self-control even as he was tempted to slide his hand down her ass.He found himself staring at her exposed neckline again, wondering if he could just kiss her right there, when he noticed how her skin glowed faintly up close, and the glamour thinned near her nape, just enough to expose her paler complexion, and the fresh bruises on her otherwise flawless skin.

Harry stiffened.

“Did Malfoy—”

“No.” Hermione said quickly. It wasn’t hard to guess what he’d noticed. The nape of the neck was hard for her to reach, and generally difficult to glamour properly. She’d been worried that she’d have missed a spot. Blaise had nipped her neck like a fiend.

A long moment of silence passed between them as they swayed less enthusiastically to the music.

“It wasn’t him,” she finally said. The sultry voices in the R&B song were still singing.

_I probably shouldn't be around you_

Harry squeezed her tighter.

_'Cause you get wild, wild, wild_

“Tell me who it was.” There was protective anger in his voice.

 _You looking like there’s nothing that you won’t do  
_ _Ay, girl, that’s when I told you—_

Hermione shook her head again.

_When I’m with you, all I get is wild thoughts_

They swayed out of rhythm, ignoring the music entirely now. It didn’t matter. This was their safe space, where they could talk just loud enough for each other to hear. They’d already danced all the way to the edge of the dance floor, deep inside the nightclub. When she looked up to meet his gaze, Harry pulled her into a corner, where the music wasn’t as loud. He wanted answers, even if only fragments of the truth, and he knew he would never get them from her if he didn't push now. He leaned against the wall and placed one hand over her head, while his other stayed firmly on her waist. It felt like he was shielding her from all that could harm her.

She looked as if she was searching for answers in his eyes. When she finally spoke, her voice trembled just a little, just enough to let him know how panic-stricken she really was. It softened him. Harry eased his rigid stance over her.

“It’s not just what happened today."

Harry held his breath with dread, but nodded to reassure her that he was listening. The familiar guitar riff played over them one last time, and the song ended, transitioning into a hypnotically slow ballad with an accompanying electric piano.

 _I can just hear them now_  
_"How could you let us down?"_

“Remember what I said the other day?” Hermione asked, lowering her eyes now to the floor. She tried to ignore how good it felt to be pressed up against him like that. She wanted so much more.

 _But they don't know what I found  
_ _Or see it from this way around_

“You said you know now that it’s possible … to feel safe.” Her choice of words had concerned him then. For days since, he'd dwelled on what she could've possibly meant, and all that rumination had made it very difficult for him to be present for his family like he had decided to do, even though he had been certainly doing more than before. 

 _Feeling it overtake  
_ _All that I used to hate_

She nodded again, absentmindedly sliding a hand down his chest. 

 _Worried ‘bout every trait  
_ _I tried but it's way too late_

“Ron really wanted kids,” she confessed.

  _All the signs I don't read_  
_Two sides of me can't agree_

This was something he knew, and even though he didn't remember Hermione sharing that desire so enthusiastically, they had never had a public argument about it, not even in front of the Weasley family.

 _When I breathe in too deep  
_ _Going with what I always longed for—_

“I did too," she said in defence, "just not yet ... not before I was sure we had financial stability. And I wanted to focus on starting my career. He couldn’t understand why we couldn’t start both.”

Harry recalled then that Ron had often grumbled about Hermione working too much, but he’d never heard Hermione’s side of the story. His mind was also drifting in and out of consciousness as her fingers idly traced his pecs. She didn't seem aware of what she was doing, and he didn't want to stop her.

“He started being very … insistent,” Hermione said, the vagueness in her words intentional. “I felt so horrible denying him.”

Harry interrupted her. “It’s not your fault that you didn’t want to have kids yet.”

“But it wasn’t just that!” she exclaimed suddenly, her heightened emotions drowning out the music. She went silent then, gripping onto Harry's shirt as her mind drifted.

“And he was so bitter too, because I … I just HAD to say that it was the responsible thing to do!" Hermione still wished she'd never said that to Ron. "So  _of course_ he took it as an insult to his family. That I was calling _him_ a mistake—!”

Only Ron could come up with such wild connections between things, but they both knew how he believed his parents had been trying to conceive a girl. That he wasn’t wanted.

“He started to think that I didn’t want him too,” Hermione whispered more softly, all her pent up emotions from the last couple years suddenly surfacing again. “I’m so sorry, Harry," she fought back a sob. "I thought I’d moved on from all this, but I ... I just ... I don’t even have words to describe how it felt to … to be so ... ”

She couldn’t say it.

Harry shook his head, showing her that it was alright to be emotional. He prompted her gently, placing his hand on one of her death grips on his shirt. She relaxed self-consciously and took a deep breath. 

“I was so … turned off, by him,” she said finally, avoiding Harry’s gaze. She knew he understood now, especially with what he was going through with Ginny. “And I couldn’t tell him that. I didn’t want him to know. So I ... ” Tears began to stream down her cheeks. She couldn’t say more.

Harry squeezed her close then. He really understood now. To hell with their attempts to maintain a distance. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Hermione choked up a laughter. “Why are _you_ sorry?”

“For not noticing,” he said, stroking her hair, like he was making up for not being there for her. “He had no right to disrespect your body, your will, all those years ... ” Harry inhaled deeply. He was only realising now how horrible it really was for Ron to have proclaimed to him that Hermione was “frigid”. He had no right. He had _absolutely_ no right. 

“I should have interfered.” His words were angry. “No, I should’ve kicked his ass.”

It was so shockingly cathartic, Hermione burst into tears. Harry had never taken sides between them.

“I still can,” he said, more gravely.

“You can’t,” she hiccuped, tears soaking into his shoulder. “You can’t!” she said more assertively, thumping his chest in the very little space she had left, with him holding her so close. “Ginny wouldn’t understand. None of them would!”

“Well,” Harry argued, pulling back now to look at her. He saw how her eyes were puffed up, and softly wiped the tears off for her. “I would think Molly and Arthur would have a thing or two to say about their son—” He paused, unable to say the word, even though the facts were hard to skirt around.

“Nobody would believe that he was taking me _by force_ ,” Hermione scoffed. It was almost comical how haughty she was about it, except it wasn’t, because nothing about her toxic relationship with her ex was funny. “I was his wife … ” she said less convincingly, looking down to where she’d been gripping onto him. His shirt was all wrinkled down the front now.

“I doubt he even knows that I didn’t want to ... half the time.”

Her words trailed off into silence as she attempted to straighten the wrinkles on Harry's shirt, even though it was just a transfigured shirt, and didn’t really need to be neatened.

She thought that she would move back an inch from him, to give herself some space to clear her mind, but she forgot that there was a wall behind her, and Harry was still leaning over her. Noticing her attempt, he shifted back a bit, even though he didn’t want to really move away from her. His hands were still on her waist though, and she didn’t really mind, even as she thought how wrong it was for them to be comfortable with this, when they were supposedly trying to refrain from being overly intimate.

Harry was too deep in thought about her situation with Ron to think about their current problem. He was fairly certain that she was right about Ron not noticing, but that didn’t fundamentally change anything.

“Doesn’t mean he’s not responsible for hurting you,” he said. The least he could do was to make sure Hermione knew that she didn’t let it happen to her. That she wasn’t to blame for her ex-husband’s inability to respect her.

Hermione shook her head. She knew that Harry was right, but who else in the family was going to believe her? And what would it matter if they did, now that it was over?

Except, after all the months that she’d spent recovering her autonomy since, she had found herself in that helpless situation again, where her body wasn’t under her control. What happened with Blaise and Draco threatened to shatter her self-esteem once more, and she was terrified that she was holding on to Harry because of it. She was terrified that she couldn’t be alone. 

The music gradually came back into the foreground.

_Feel like a brand new person_

Her eyes glazed over as the now audible lyrics made her sad, as much as it gave her hope.

_(But you make the same old mistakes)_

Harry saw this, and gently pulled her towards him, away from the wall. It surprised her enough to bring her back into focus. His bright blue glamoured eyes looked so handsome up close, she suddenly felt embarrassed looking into them.

_Well, I don’t care I’m in love_

But he placed a hand under her chin, making her look at him in the eye.

_(Stop before it’s too late)_

“You don’t need to deal with this alone,” he said quietly. She was one of the strongest women he knew, but it didn't mean she had to heal on her own.

_Feel like a brand new person_

God, if only he could _really_ hold her right now.

_(But you make the same old mistakes)_

He felt the intense desire to pleasure her.

_I finally know what it's like_

To let her know that she was exceptional, that she deserved to feel good.

_(You don’t have what it takes)_

He ran a hand down to the small of her back and pressed her tight against his body, possibly against his better judgement.

_(Stop before it’s not too late)_

Hermione gasped from the pleasing impression of his thigh pressed between hers.

_(I know there’s too much at stake)_

He badly wanted to grind into her as her knees buckled, placing her weight on his leg. Even the slightest sensual touch was sending burning sensations through their bodies.

_(Making the same mistakes)_

And this time, with how closely they were staring into each other’s eyes, they both knew the other person felt it.

_And I still don’t know why it’s happening_

Her heart was thumping in her ears with the feeling of his intoxicating breath on her lips. _God help me ... I want to kiss him._

_(Stop while it’s not too late)_

_Her lips are so inviting_ , he thought. All it would take was moving an inch forward.

_And I still don’t know—_

“But I have to,” she whispered breathlessly, coming to her senses. She had to deal with this alone.

Harry felt like he’d lost his breath. He had a strong urge to argue, but remembered too that he had announced his decision to her in his office, not many days ago. She was right, and they both knew it.

“I should go home,” she maintained as she stared at her feet, moving away from him. They couldn’t keep this up without crossing the line again. The song changed once more, becoming something more upbeat. The floor was shaking from how the people were bouncing up and down around them.

 _Me too_ , Harry said to himself, even as he felt the stabbing pain of letting her go.

Ginny and James were waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs featured are "Hey Ma" by Pitbull and J Balvin ft. Camila Cabello, "Wild Thoughts" by DJ Khaled and Rihanna, and "Same Ol' Mistakes" by Rihanna.
> 
> Next chapter: Unmet Expectations


	7. Unmet Expectations

“The printing office is where you bring your approved drafts. Gin, this way—” Dean Thomas clamped his mouth shut as soon as he noticed the mistake. Calling his ex by her pet name was admittedly a little too intimate, especially in the office. Luckily for Dean, the woman in question was distracted by the whispered chatters around them. 

_“That’s her, the Harpies Chaser.”_

_“You mean Harry Potter’s wife—THAT Chaser?”_

_“—Guess retired celebrity athletes need jobs too.”_

Ginny Potter tried her best not to pay them any mind. It was only her first day at the Daily Prophet. Surely her new colleagues’ gossiping will die down eventually.

“Ginny,” Dean was still correcting himself, except she only vaguely heard it as him simply calling her name. “This way,” he said again as he turned into a corridor, away from the main floor of the Prophet. He only realised then that Ginny wasn’t following him.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

Ginny came out of her reverie with a snap. “Sorry, I was—“ she put on a tight smile. “I’m fine. Let’s go.” She walked ahead of him.

Dean knew Ginny’s defensive ‘fine’ meant that she was far from ‘fine’, but he’d learned too not to question when she was strung up. He sped up a few steps to be ahead of her again and led her into the printing office. The fascinating sight within quickly distracted them from the uncomfortable tension. Groups of four or five scribes were busily passing each other an array of printing blocks, arranging them and rearranging them with deft hands over wooden frames prepared for printing. Heavy scrolls were carried from one desk to another, where more witches and wizards were proofreading scrolls so long that they trailed to the floor. Ginny marvelled at the hustle and bustle as Dean briskly took her to a wizard barking orders in the back of the room.

“Director Papyrus,” Dean said, bowing curtly. “This is Ginny W—Potter, our newest sports columnist.”

“Mrs. Potter! I’ve heard ALL about you from Ralph—such a fan. Such a big fan!” Director Papyrus was a loud, jolly man, whose robes were so ill fit that he looked ready to burst out of them. Ginny felt a little uncomfortable with his enthusiasm at taking her hand, which he gripped tightly, like he'd been waiting for the opportunity all day.

“Ralph said that your interview blew him away. Surprising, really. He’s quite the stickler—it’s the Ravenclaw in him, I’m telling you—”

Ginny blushed profusely. Sports Column Chief Editor Raphael ‘Ralph’ Almeidas had seemed like quite the stickler indeed, and it was a relief to hear even second-handedly that her new boss thought highly of her. Her growing smile was short-lived, however, as Papyrus placed another hand on hers and pulled her closer. Ginny almost gasped in surprise. The old head scribe’s breath up close smelled like two-day old cigarettes, making her want to gag, but the feeling got worse when he raised an eyebrow at her meaningfully. “I heard you and young Thomas here knew each other from Hogwarts. Were you—”

“Yes, we were housemates,” Dean interrupted, grabbing both of Papyrus’ hands to release his death grip on Ginny. The old man frowned, but Dean plastered on a convincingly bright smile and turned it into a firm handshake. “As an old friend, I must ask you and your team to support her through this transition, now we must find—ah yes! Ms. Bumbles! Have you met Ginny Potter?” Dean placed one hand on Ginny’s back and swiftly guided her across the room, far away from the leering old wizard. “Ginny, this is Agatha. You’ll be working with her very closely.”

He continued to take her around the room, shaking hands, making small talk. Ginny didn’t even realise that she was holding her breath until they had left the room. She was fixated on how Dean had handled the awkward encounter with the printing office director with such ease. It boggled her mind, too, how he was so calm and collected around her, like nothing had happened. Like this wasn’t the first time that they were speaking to each other properly since he’d apologised for the unwelcome kiss on the cheek. She found herself staring at his lips and quickly shook the thought from her mind.

It _was_ unwelcome, she reminded herself again. Yet Ginny couldn’t forget the sense of relief that had washed over her when he had squeezed her close as she fumed over her brother and his girlfriend’s insolence. His gesture was unbearably tender. His kiss on the cheek so light, so gentle that she’d thought she’d imagined it. Memories from their old relationship hit her like a wave, just as it did when he had protectively removed Papyrus’ hands from hers.

“Something bothering you?”

“No,” Ginny answered automatically again. She had a habit of sweeping things under the carpet, which she knew wasn’t healthy, but old habits die hard. She could tell that Dean didn’t believe her now, and quickly turned the conversation elsewhere.

“So … do I get one of these booths to work in?” she asked as they returned to the main hall of the Prophet. The room was filled with people, busily writing away, shouting orders at each other. It was exactly the kind of vibrant workspace that she had wanted to be a part of, though the open stares really were uncomfortable. Ginny impatiently rapped her fingers on her crossed arms. How long would it take for her to stop feeling like a zoo animal around here?

Dean grinned. Ginny didn’t like the mischief hidden in the corner of his lips. His lips that she caught herself staring at again. _Merlin, what is wrong with me?_

“No, M’am,” he was saying. “The central hall is for administrative staff only. This way.” Dean led her down a different corridor. Ginny instantly felt relieved to be away from all the eyes, but also felt apprehensive. Where were they going?

“That’s my office,” he pointed out in passing. Ginny glanced at his name plate. “Dean Thomas, Editor”, it said. Impressive, really, that he had risen the ranks already. He’d only been working at the Prophet for several years. They turned into a dead end with several rooms. “We have different office clusters for each column,” he explained. “The sports folks are all here.” He spread his arms out demonstratively. “And this one is our conference space,” he pointed at a glass-paned room. “The team meets here every morning at 7, and again at 4 to debrief.”

Ginny didn’t miss the inclusive “our”. She turned to him questioningly, and Dean returned her look with a small smile that was somewhat apologetic—or was she imagining things?

“I’m new here,” he explained, “Almeidas bosses me around a bit, but I will be in charge of overseeing the Sports column too, starting this week.”

“So you’re technically boss of _both_ the Sports and Entertainment columns?”

“Shh … ” Dean whispered exaggeratedly as he bent down close. It was only then that Ginny realised that she had teased him out of habit.

“It’s easier if Almeidas thinks he’s boss.”

Ginny couldn’t help but smile at that. Dean had always been a good right-hand man. A strategist in the shadows. Most weren’t aware, but his quick and clear mind had been been central to the DA’s operations within Hogwarts before the Dark Lord’s downfall.

“And these are the offices,” he now said, straightening up and knocking on one of the doors. It opened, and most of the staff within stood up respectfully. Dean wasn’t kidding. He was in charge around here.

“You’ve already met Kayla, I believe.”

Dean pointed at a brunette, whose face lit up immediately at the mentioning of her name. Ginny thought she’d seen her before, but she didn’t have time to gather her thoughts before the young woman had pulled her into a tight hug with a squeal.

“I was there for your final goal, you were breathtaking!”

“As you can tell, she’s a massive fan of yours.” Dean laughed, patting Kayla in the back. The young Quidditch reporter pulled back with the brightest smile, squeezing Ginny’s hands affectionately. “I was hoping and praying you’d be back on the pitch one day, but it’s such an honour to work with you now like this too.”

Ginny liked Kayla already. As Dean continued to introduce her around, the brunette whispered loudly in her ear. “Can I ask you for autographs for my nieces? Is that okay?” Dean made a disapproving sound, but Ginny stifled a chuckle and agreed wordlessly, making Kayla squeal again.

“Kayla, for Merlin’s sake—Ginny, that’s Johnny and Mason, our camera crew.” 

“A pleasure,” said a large man with a quiet smile. He was busy fixing some equipment in the corner.

“Mason,” Dean called at the other man, who had his back turned to them, scribbling away on what looked to be a schedule. “ _Mason._ ”

The mousy haired man turned around, but only barely. He looked less than enthused.

“I never said I’d acknowledge _this_ ,” he gestured at Ginny with the now rolled up schedule in his hand.

Ginny felt like he’d thrown a cold bucket of water in her face. Kayla made an audible groan. Even Dean, who was very mild mannered, clicked his tongue with a loud tsk. 

“Not this again—”

“What?” Mason fired back at Kayla before she could finish. “You think it’s a good idea to hire a complete amateur as a reporter? Is that all your job is worth to you?”

The female reporter’s jaw dropped. Dean moved defensively in front of the two women. “Watch it,” he warned, raising his forefinger angrily. “I told you to give her a chance.”

Mason chuckled derisively in response. He stood up from his seat and walked up real close to Dean, pointing at his chest with the scroll. “If you cared about what we do on the ground half as much as we do, Editor Thomas, you wouldn’t leave anything to chances.”

“Who said anything about leaving things to chances?”

“Just because she played Quidditch doesn’t mean she can report it well!”

“Then teach me.” 

“Excuse me?” Mason turned.

Ginny’s interruption finally made him address her directly.

“Teach me,” Ginny said again, with her arms folded, eyes narrowed in annoyance. “What you do _on the ground_ , like you say.” She fought Dean to let her move in front of him. She didn’t need his protection all the bloody time. “Show me what you do, and let me learn. I promise you, I’m not just fast at scoring Quaffles.”

“Lightning fast, you mean,” Kayla whispered, which made Ginny crack a smile. She had been season MVP as Holyhead Harpies’ Chaser after all.

Mason looked to argue but Dean interrupted him with a reassuring nod. “She has a point. Almeidas and I expect you all to help her.” He ignored Mason’s loud scoff. “That’s how we don’t _leave anything to chances_ ,” he emphasised, giving Mason a pat on the shoulder.

Mason smacked his hand away angrily. “Yeah, push the newbie onto your subordinates, when it was your fault that we los—”

“Didn’t you always want an autograph from her too? Don’t ruin your chance.”

Mason’s cheeks turned crimson as he turned to glare at Johnny, who just spoke, but the quiet camera man didn’t once raise his eyes from the equipment that he was cleaning meticulously. Kayla couldn’t hold back a giggle, and soon everyone was laughing. Even Mason sighed in defeat.

“Alright, you clowns,” Dean announced, clapping his hands for the attention of the entire crew. “Get going now. You’ve got interviews to do, columns to write!”

“Aye!” they hollered back in unison. Ginny was ready to join them, but Dean took her to a corner of the room instead. “Not yet,” he said. Everyone else scrambled to work.

“I’m sorry about Mason,” he said in a low voice, as soon as they were out of earshot.

Ginny shrugged. “It’s okay,” she said with little emotion, “I _am_ a novice after all.” But Dean saw the dangerous glint in her eye.

“No.” His tone was firm.

“What,” she snapped back, glaring at him now.

They stared at each other for a while, neither moving. Dean spoke first.

“I’ll have to report you if he gets a bat-bogey, so just … don’t do it.”

Ginny tried to keep a straight face. “Something else then?” she asked, an eyebrow raised tauntingly.

Dean raised a meaningful eyebrow back. “Is this going to be a test run of something new from the Weasley’s Wizarding Wheeze?”

She gave him a mockingly pleasant smile.

“Oh, Dean, when have I ever needed Fred and George’s help with a prank?”

Ginny never quite lost the habit of referring to her twin brothers as a unit. She didn’t catch herself this time until she’d felt quite proud of herself for the comeback.

Dean looked sad with her for a moment, but quickly narrowed his eyes. “Keep being that cheeky, and I’ll make sure you get caught.”

She chuckled. “As if you can.”

Dean broke into an impish smile, the one that she had used to love. It made her self-conscious. She realised that she was bantering with him again. Dean noticed too. He saw how her smile faltered.

“You’ll be up to speed in no time,” he said quietly, averting her gaze. Ginny looked down at her feet as well.

“And he’ll come around,” Dean continued to say, tilting his head at Mason, who was on his way out the door now with Kayla and Johnny. “I promise,” he said, turning back to her.

The skeptical look on Ginny’s face suggested that she didn’t share his confidence, but Dean didn’t want to get too much into it. He cleared his throat to change the topic. It was time to get back to business.

“Anyway, this is your desk,” he said, patting the empty cubicle that they were standing closest to. He watched as Ginny’s eyes lit up for a moment, but then absently scanned the office, like she wasn’t sure about her new job anymore. She certainly seemed a lot less excited than when they’d let her know that she was hired. He wondered if Mason had really managed to put her off so much.

Or maybe it was someone else. Maybe it was him.

_“You shouldn’t have done that.”_

She had been unusually harsh when he apologized to her again about the kiss.

 _“I only meant to comfort you,”_ Dean had tried to explain, but she retorted without mercy.

_“With a kiss? What were you thinking?”_

It was frustrating that she acted like she didn’t like it, not even one bit. But what can he say to that? She was, after all, married.

_“Don’t do it again, or we can’t stay friends.”_

She had given him the ultimatum, and he had conceded. But that didn’t mean he had to pretend like he didn’t want the best for her. Like he didn’t want to be the one making her happy. Or did it?

Dean cleared his throat again. He didn’t mean to get distracted like that. “I’m going to go grab your contract and such,” he said to Ginny, who still seemed a little dazed. “Wait here—oh, and, for the morning, just get settled in and read through these archives. It’ll be good to get familiar with our work.” He tapped on a pile of old Daily Prophets that he had Kayla prepare for her.

Ginny nodded distractedly. She placed her bag on the chair and began arranging her personal items in her new work space. She pulled out a photo with her extended family, and another with Harry and James, and arranged them on her cork board. Ginny smiled as she watched Harry and her cooing at their baby boy in the photo. It was taken recently by her father, on the morning of James’ first birthday.

 _Before everything went downhill_ , she thought to herself.

When Dean returned, Ginny was still staring at the photo, lost in her thoughts. She seemed downright glum.

“You’re gonna miss him,” he whispered.

“What—oh … yeah. At least mum will be there for him.” Ginny pinned the photo onto the cork board, along with the other photo with the Weasley’s. Dean noticed that Hermione was in it too, standing next to Ron and beaming. It must have been from a couple years ago. James was missing. 

“If Molly is ever busy,” he suggested, as he looked away from the photos to Ginny. He handed her a few pamphlets, along with her contract. “We have a day care just downstairs,” he said, pointing at one of the leaflets. “You can even spend time with him during breaks.”

Ginny’s eyes widened as she accepted the documents from him. “Wow,” she gasped, reading through the leaflets. “I didn’t even think that was possible.”

“Many of our staff use its services,” Dean explained, happy to be helpful. “It’s within your benefits package—you’ll see it in there, in your contract,” he said, flipping to the relevant pages for her. Ginny nodded, skimming through the fine print eagerly.

“And if you get promoted some day,” Dean said. Ginny looked up and saw that he was grinning mischievously. She smiled back. He was right about her ambitions.

“I’ll help you set up an extra space for James in your personal office,” he promised. “Child-proofed barriers and all.”

Ginny had no words. Having a child and staying employed full time in the wizarding world was no joke. After all, magical children did not go to school until they were eleven. Who was supposed to take care of James while she was at work? Ginny didn’t want to rely on her parents forever. For the first time since she began looking for a job, she saw the concrete steps that she needed to take to be in control of her destiny, and it was all laid out in the contract before her.

“I’ll be in my office if you need anything else,” Dean said, before he left her to her work and her thoughts. “And I mean it,” he stressed with a wink. “Anything.”

Ginny found herself holding her breath again. She had to admit it. His attentiveness made her giddy with relief.

**#**

“Hello, Beth,” Hermione greeted.

The old janitor who worked the late shift on her floor at the Ministry smiled warmly as she passed by. “Hello, Ms. Hermione,” she greeted back with a nod. “Leaving already today?”

 _Already?_ Hermione looked at her watch. Well, it was long past six, but she worked overtime almost every day, so she supposed it _was_ quite early for her.

“I am,” she answered with a sigh, adjusting the folders clutched in her arms. “Thought I’d finish at home tonight.”

Beth shook her head with a chuckle as she emptied the closest trash bin. “Don’t work too hard, dear,” she said, turning away back to her mopping. “You’ve got plenty of time ahead of you.”

Hermione smiled. “Yes, mom,” she joked with a tiny salute, as she did every evening to Beth’s advice.

As soon as she got home though, she decided that she’d take the wise lady’s advice for once. Shrinking the folders and carefully putting them away in her handbag—so she wouldn’t try to look at them impulsively—she kicked off her shoes and peeled off her work clothes as she strolled across her apartment. With nothing but her panties and bra on, she walked into her bathroom and turned on the faucet to her bathtub. Steam slowly built up as she turned to her sink and reached for a cleansing towelette with one hand, while turning on the radio with the other.

“Thank you for tuning in to FM 93.3! The next song is a hit from Destiny’s Child’s Beyonce Knowles. Let’s hear it— _All the ladies if you feel me help me sing it ooout—_ ”

Hermione smiled at the classic opening line. Beyonce’s cooing in the background made her feel like a vixen carefully wiping the make up off her face in the mirror, taking special care with the eyes and lips.

“I can’t believe I belieeeved everythiiiing we had would last,” she sang along with sass as she threw away the used towelette. “So young and naiiive of meee to think sheee was from your past—mhmm,” she sighed happily as she unclasped her bra, freeing her titties from the torturous garment and swung it into her laundry hamper. “I can’t belieeeeve I fell for your schemes, I’m smaaarter than that.” Shimming out of her knickers too, she stepped into the shower to rinse.

“Took me some time, but now I’m stroOoong!” she belted with satisfaction. Once she had soaked her hair wet, she slathered each strand with a self-concocted treatment - it was her secret to keeping her formerly bushy locks well defined. With her hair safely tucked away in a towel, she stepped out to dip a hand into the slowly filling bathtub. The temperature was just right.

 _Because I realised I got—_  
_Me, myself, and I_  
_That’s all I got in the end_  
_That’s what I found out_  
_And it ain’t no need to cry_  
_I took a vow that from now on  
_ _I will be my own best friend—_

As the lyrics of the chorus sank in, the boldness that Hermione had found a moment ago was slowly replaced by quiet reflection. Her mind wandered to an uncomfortable encounter that she had earlier that evening, not long before she’d bumped into Beth.

_“Don’t see you in the archives often, Ms. Granger-Weasley.”_

Hermione had almost broken the fragile, old quill that she was using at the time.

 _“Percy,”_ she had greeted back tersely, putting down her pen and cocking an angry eyebrow at her ex-brother-in-law. _“Why on Earth are you calling me_ that _?”_

Percy Weasley, who was a court scribe at the Ministry, had raised an eyebrow back at her, though with a lot less emotion. _“Is it not your name?”_ he countered with nonchalance, turning away to catalog the shelves across from her.

Well, he had a point. Except it was rather callous of him, considering Pansy Parkinson’s recent accusations towards her at James’ birthday party. Percy was there too.

_So he’s siding with the Slytherin wench?_

Hermione couldn’t hold in her anger. _“Actually,”_ she had said then, picking up her quill with new vigour and dipping it in her ink pot. _“It’s not. Not for long.”_ She went back to writing the letter that she had been drafting, feinting composure. _“I’ve filed for a legal name change.”_

She hadn’t meant to break the news to Percy, of all people, but Hermione was done being patronised. She had felt him pause in his work, but didn’t look up to check. She didn’t want him to think that she cared. _“It should be approved by tomorrow,”_ she added for good measure.

Percy most definitely had turned around to her then. 

_“Before your case with the Wizengamot?”_

He sounded surprised. And that, of all things, was what made her lose it.

 _“Unlike you, Percy Weasley,”_ she’d scowled, slamming the quill so hard onto the table that a loud crack echoed across the room. _“I don’t make all my life decisions based on professional gain!”_ Ink spilled from the broken tip of her quill. The letter was ruined, but in that moment, Hermione could care less. To her surprise though, Percy didn’t sound the least bit insulted by her clapback. Instead, his tone was soft, almost sad.

_“What did Ron say?”_

It left her speechless. And as Hermione watched her bathtub fill up now, she wondered what her ex-husband _would_ say when he found out. She hadn’t told him.

There was a time when she had shared everything with Ron and Harry. Every important decision that she ever made, just as they had shared with her. And they had fought. They had fought a lot. But she never kept anything of consequence from them. And the thought that it was no longer true with either of them broke her heart.

_How did we come to this?_

As the music changed, she threw a couple apple and lemon myrtle bath bombs into the tub and watched the water turn into a swirl of bright green and yellow. It was beautiful, soothing, and deeply fragrant. Making sure that her treatment soaked hair was wrapped safely on her head, she slowly stepped into the fizzy deliciousness and pulled her knees close to her chest. A more melancholy female voice was now crooning over the radio.

_“Na na na na …”_

Jhene Aiko’s soft vocals filled the steaming room, blending in with the gorgeous citrusy aroma. Hermione inhaled deeply, paused, breathed out slowly, and repeated the motions again. Closing her eyes, she willed herself to relax …

 _Oblivion—Wish I would go back, I could go back to no one_  
_Oblivion—Wish I would go back, I could go back to nowhen  
_ _Sweet oblivion_

 _There's no loving without losing_  
_There's no living without bruising_  
_There's no limit, no delusion  
_ _Sweet oblivion_

 _There's no loving without losing_  
_There's no living without bruising_  
_There's no limit, no delusion  
_ _Sweet oblivion—_

She felt her consciousness blending with the singer’s soothingly sad words, stirring her thoughts and feelings as they hovered in mid air. She didn’t force herself to explore or avoid them. This was her ritual. A meditative practice that had helped her sort through and get over a lot of the pain from her divorce. And even though things have been quite dreadful of late, she firmly believed that she can, and will, bounce back to that high point in her life again.

Harry drifted across her mind. She thought about their suffocating intimacy, the unfamiliar emotions growing between them, and how they were so comforting, and yet so unbearable. It took her a lot of strength to stay away from him for the last few days, to recuperate on her own. He’d been her rock—they’d been each other’s rocks through so much. She wondered what she’d say to him the next time they met. She wondered if anything between them could ever be the same again.

Her mind wandered elsewhere, but soon discovered that letting thoughts go wherever they wished was a lot harder when it came to what happened with Malfoy and Zabini. Her heart rate increased, her breathing shallowed. She felt a panic attack rising— _No!_ She opened her eyes, suddenly realising that she was crying. Her body shook violently as the sobs wracked through her. She wasn’t ready to confront her anger, her shame. _How was I not able to fight back, when it took a full body bind to stop Draco fucking Malfoy from moving? All it took for Zabini to make me submit was to press me up against a bloody side table!_ It was absurd, unthinkable— _I had my wand on me!_

… Hermione tried to calm down. Sinking deeper into the bathtub, she leaned back until her head was resting on the ledge and her upper body was immersed in the now glowing yellow swirls. Staring up at her bathroom’s blue tiled ceiling, her memories from the Malfoy Manor slowly developed into more coherent thoughts. She felt a righteous anger brew from deep within, reminding her that she had been drugged. That the red wine that Zabini had offered her was most definitely laced. And that she wouldn’t have been receptive to his advances otherwise.

He couldn’t have violated her otherwise.

The look of shock and disgust on Malfoy’s face when he realised what Zabini had done confirmed as much. And as much as she had misgivings for the ferret, it was somewhat comforting that he wasn’t in on the treacherous scheme. That her whole visit wasn’t an elaborate set up. She still loathed him though. 

Hermione found that it was easier to breathe now. She closed her eyes, still unable to revisit the physical experience in her mind. Still couldn’t process the Whats and the Whys. But the righteous anger was a small progress in reframing what they robbed from her … and if thinking in the abstract was as far as she could go now, she was okay with that. She told herself that she can be okay with that.

At that thought, Hermione relaxed significantly. She was still reeling from the earlier pounding in her chest and felt a little dazed from the heat of the bath, but she knew that the worst of the panic attack had passed. She wiped her eyes with a hand and sniffled with a chuckle. “I’m okay,” she said softly to herself. She will be okay.

She spent some time just daydreaming, smoothing out the bubbles along her limbs, letting her hair down and massaging the oils in. It felt nice to spend time taking care of herself. Leaning back again, she ran her hands over her skin, trying to remember what it felt like to be comfortable with feeling pleasure, to not be afraid of her own body. It was another ritual for her, one that had helped her reclaim her confidence when she broke up with Ron one last time. Faintly, she thought she heard the radio DJ announcing her favorite song.

 _Sex with me, so amazing  
_ _All this hard work, no vacation …_

Unlike Rihanna, who was singing the trippy and slow sexy track with a man in mind, she imagined no one, just herself, loving her own body. She admired her uniquely shaped breasts, revelled in the way they weighted against her hands as she caressed them. The perkiness of her nipples fascinated her. Soft to the touch at first, but slowly becoming firmer as she kneaded them, they felt wonderful. She closed her eyes and let out a soft moan as a woozy sensation of euphoria slowly spread to her limbs. She turned her fingers’ attentions to her torso, down her stomach, hesitating only as she reached the soft mounds of her vulva. Hermione hummed in pleasure as she slid one finger down the slit. There was nothing more decadent than touching yourself while immersed in the gorgeous aroma of bath oils, surrounded in bubbles, and it felt so good to have control over how much pressure she put on her clit, how quickly her fingers moved as she rubbed over the sensitive nub. Her mind drifted to the nightclub the other night, the way his body pressed up against hers, how he was so obviously turned on, how it felt to have that effect on him, when she found him to be so incredibly hot too—

_No._

She paused to a halt and sat up, mortified that she had started to imagine Harry again. The last thing that she needed was to lust after him anymore! And yet—she relaxed back into the hot water, and reminded herself that she was still going through her meditative routine. Hermione breathed out, breathed in, breathed out, and found herself thinking about him again, but noticing now that in her mind, he wasn’t in glamour, like he had been at the nightclub. Harry was himself. And it was different than what had happened, but she found herself fantasising grinding into the real Harry, as she now insistently rubbed circles against her clit. She slid her other hand to her breasts again, and imagined them being squeezed up against his toned chest, her nipples rubbing raw against his dress shirt as she squeezed and teased them. _Gods,_ it was a sinful thought, but it was _so_ _good, SO sexy_. She couldn’t stop. She didn’t want to.

_You don’t have to._

She thought she heard her door bell ring, but her brain shut down, and her lips parted into a small ‘o’ as her mind became flooded by the memory of Harry grinding into her on the dance floor, and of him kneeling over her in bed with her legs thrown over his shoulders, his manhood deep inside her. She plunged a finger into her pussy, and then another, and another, imagining his dick ramming into her again. She remembered, vividly, the way that he watched her come, like she was the most beautiful creature that he’d ever seen, like he didn’t want anything else but to come with her, _inside_ of her. And before she could thrust anymore, the tension building deep inside her exploded. She let out a loud, unapologetic moan, and climaxed with a violent shudder. There were bright spots on the ceiling. It felt divine.

Warm and content in the afterglow, Hermione wondered vaguely if she should feel guilty about her fantasy as she came down from her high. After all, weren’t her thoughts hers alone? As long as she didn’t act upon them again— 

_Brrrrr!_

That was the door bell. What she thought she had heard earlier wasn’t just an imagination after all. With soap suds still clinging to her skin, she stepped out of the bathtub and wrapped a large towel around herself.

Surely it’s not the mailman at this hour.

A little irritated, a little concerned, she ambled across her living room and peered through the peep hole of her front door. Her jaw slacked.

“Harry?”

A deep blush rose to her cheeks.

He must have heard her consternation. The voice from the other side of the door was beyond apologetic. “I’m sorry. I know you said you wanted to spend some time alone…” He looked so flustered, she wondered—to her horror—if he had maybe heard her moaning earlier, but his next words soon confirmed otherwise.

“Something happened … Is it … okay if I came in?”

A different kind of dread washed over Hermione. Harry looked tired as hell. Even his glasses couldn’t hide the bags under his eyes. And there was that lost lamb look again.

“Um, just—give me a minute?” she mumbled, wrapping the wet towel tightly around her chest.

“Thank you,” he whispered back from other side of the door, sinking to her doorstep in relief.

 _This can’t be good_ , she thought as she picked up her dirty laundry scattered across the room. She had to at least throw on something decent before opening that door.

#

The last few days had not been kind to Harry James Potter. He’d been working overtime all weekend, trying to distract himself from what happened with Hermione. She asked for space to think. He agreed that he needed it too. At least she made it easier for them by disappearing off to somewhere once the work week started. He was finally close to finishing the review of all his subordinates’ quarterly reports. Now he can move on to editing his own.

"Working so late again, Mr. Auror?" 

Harry looked up from his stupor and found the owner of the gentle voice. He smiled with a sigh, "Hello, Beth."

The old janitor bowed respectfully as she pulled out a large bag of trash from a rubbish bin. "Hello, Harry." 

"You're working very late too," he chuckled as he picked up the spilling garbage for her. Beth thanked him profusely.

"It's normal for me to work at this hour," she laughed, "but you—you've been working very hard lately. Even Ms. Hermione had gone home already."

Harry's heart skipped a beat at the mentioning of her name. He hadn’t seen her around the Ministry since the work week started. It was only Tuesday, but he felt like he'd missed her for weeks already.

_Lord, I'm useless._

Harry greeted Beth goodnight and left the Ministry building. On the way home, his heart grew heavy as he thought about the other reason why he’d been working so hard—he was still avoiding Ginny.

The guilt ate him up so much that he couldn't stand even being around her, having to lie about where he'd been all night when she was waiting to tell him that she got the job. And he’d been a real shitty husband lately, he had to admit. The closest he got to being around Ginny’s presence was when he made breakfast for her on Monday. He bought her flowers to celebrate her first day of work—her favorite tiger lilies and violets, arranged carefully at the dining table in the morning. Yet Ginny had been unusually quiet, only glancing at the bouquet cursorily, and ate his food without so much of a compliment. She looked like she had something to say before heading out to the Daily Prophet headquarters, but didn’t in the end. He didn’t ask either. But how could he blame her lack of affection? Even while living under the same roof, he could feel that they were growing apart.

 _After Friday,_ he told himself. Once he submitted the Auror Department reports to Kingsley, he would deal with all his problems one by one.

But of course, nothing ever quite happened according to plan.

The moment Harry arrived home, his well-trained auror intuitions told him something was off. Looking down at his doorsteps, he noticed an unfamiliar pair of men’s sized Oxfords haphazardly mixed in with Ginny and his shoes. He had some inkling of whom they belonged to. Naturally, he had to assume the worst. Harry pulled out his wand and quietly entered the apartment.

It didn’t take him that far to see the man that he had suspected. Dean Thomas was standing in his dining room, raising a glass of water to his lips.

Harry felt all the blood rise to his head. Dean only had a pair of khakis on.

“What _the hell?_ ”

Dean paused mid-drink and turned around, looking surprised. “Hey, Harry,” he said as he removed the glass from his lips. Harry’s raised wand didn’t escape his notice, but he continued to greet the other wizard with remarkable composure.

“I heard you’ve been working late lately,” he said measuredly.

Harry wasn’t sure what part of that statement pissed him off most. “What the hell are you doing here,” he said hotly. It was more a statement than a question.

The taller, gangly man frowned, looking less mild-mannered suddenly. He scratched his bare chest. “Right, we have some issues to sort out … you wanna sit down and talk?” Dean reached to pull a chair out for him, but Harry slammed his hand on the table, stopping him in his tracks.

“Fine,” Dean said, removing his hand from the chair exaggeratedly. “It’s your house.”He turned his attention to the beautiful vase of flowers on the table, the ones Harry had gotten Ginny just yesterday, and softly touched the petals of a tiger lily. “We can stand here instead.”

The passive aggression got to Harry. He felt a hot possessiveness over the flowers too.

“I asked you what you’re doing here, Dean Thomas,” he said again. “You better be straight up with me—Ginny!” he called coarsely into the apartment, storming from one room to another. It didn’t take long for him to realise that his wife wasn’t there. James wasn’t either.

Deeply disturbed, Harry returned to the master bedroom for another look and noticed that the bed was made, like it had been that morning. Furrowing his brow, he looked around the room and saw the only anomaly from the morning earlier.Their tool box was set down near the bathroom door, with freshly opened packages of metal parts and shopping bags lying around. He looked at Dean again, and noticed for the first time how grimy his pants were. As were his hands. There was a sheen of sweat on his face, dripping down his neck.

So much for auror intuitions.

“The shower.”

Dean nodded. “She tried to fix it herself,” he said of Ginny, “Sounded like the boiler was beyond repair, so we went to the store to get a replacement.”

Harry wished he could feel relief, but the thought of Dean buying hardware with her to fix _their_ shower made him see red again.

“Well,” he said derisively, finally putting his threatening wand away. “That’s nice of you to offer a hand. I still don’t see how any of this is your business.”

Dean frowned again, but only shrugged in response, which pissed Harry off.

“If you have something to say—”

“You really are so full of shit.”

Dean’s foul-mouthed comeback was stunning.

“You try to engage me in some competition for alpha status,” the taller wizard continued, “But you don’t even make time for her, and _I’M_ the asshole because I do?”

Harry ignored the rightful accusation and focused on the part that bothered him. “It sounds like to me you’ve forgotten that you’re no longer her boyfriend, and our business is none of yours.”

Dean laughed contemptuously. “Oh, because you’re _so good_ at being her husband, when—”

He never got to finish that sentence. The wind was knocked out of him when Harry’s solid punch made contact with his face. Dean fell backwards and grabbed hold of the closest thing, which happened to be the chair that he had pulled out. He fell over right along with it, but didn’t even have a moment to breathe before Harry was on top of him, punching him across the face again. Dean desperately kicked up and knocked Harry back against the dining table. He got up before Harry could recover and slammed the auror onto the table, knocking over the glass of water and the vase. Both fell to the floor with a loud smash. Locked in their fistfight, neither heard Ginny scream until she broke them up with an angry swing of her wand. 

“What in the BLOODY HELL are you two doing!?” She glared at one man to the other, whom she had blasted to opposite ends of the dining room.

James, who was hanging on her arm, immediately started crying. Both men’s faces fell, but Harry saw the way Ginny looked at Dean apologetically, and felt the anger rise all over again.

“The real question here, is WHY he’s here!” he yelled back, pointing at the other wizard as he struggled to stand up. Ginny had knocked him off his feet real hard.

The red-head couldn’t believe his obtuseness. “Dean, please take James to his room—NO!” She stopped Harry before he could argue. “You stay _right_ there! We need to talk.”

Harry crossed his arms and waited with all the self-control he could muster. As soon as Dean had disappeared into the baby room with James, who was still wailing, Ginny walked up to her fuming husband with her arms in the air.

“What is the matter with you??” she hissed.

Harry loosened his arms. His jaw slacked. All he could muster was, “Are you … serious?”

“ _Yes!_ You need to stop being so suspicious of him! How am I supposed to work with him when you … when you act like _this?_ ”

“Like _this_??”

“Yes! Like _THIS_! Punching a man who hasn’t done anything wrong. Apologise to him,” Ginny demanded, her voice now barely above a whisper.

Harry felt like he was hyperventilating.

“No. _Fucking._ Way.”

“Harry!”

“You brought him here, knowing how I feel—”

“ _HE WAS JUST FIXING THE BOILER FOR US!_ Are you seriously—” she pressed a hand against her forehead in exasperation. “Why did you agree to me working with him, if you were going to be like this?”

Harry threw his arms in the air. “What do you mean— _YOU_ wanted the job!”

Ginny’s eyes went wide. “So you _didn’t_ want me to work at the Prophet?” She couldn’t believe what he was saying.

“I don’t care if you work at _the Prophet_!” Harry fired back. “I’m talking about _HIM_!”

“You don’t _care_ that I work at the Prophet?” Ginny’s face was pale now.

“Stop twisting my—”

“I knew it … that’s why you were gone all weekend!”

Harry’s face went beet red.

“That wasn’t why. I had wor—”

“Then be honest with me,” Ginny’s voice was now trembling with self-restraint. It felt like she was about to explode anytime. “Did you, or did you not want me to work at the Prophet … ?”

Harry didn’t understand why she was so fixated on his approval of her employment. Had he not shown her enough that he cared? He looked down at the shattered vase of flowers, suddenly deeply upset by how the colorful bouquet was crushed beyond repair.

“Why are we talking about the bloody Prophet," he started again, _"when HE_ is the proble—”

“ _NO_ ,” Ginny asserted, pushing his accusatory finger away from the baby room door. “ _YOU_ have a problem with _ME_ ,” she said, pointing at him, and then at herself.

“WHY are you defending HIM!”

“I AM NOT DEFENDING HIM!”

Before either of them knew it, they were screaming at each other at the top of their lungs.

“FINE. DO WHAT YOU WANT. LET HIM INTO OUR HOUSE! REPLACE ME! WHATEVER!”

“WILL YOU STOP ACTING LIKE DEAN IS THE PROBLEM HERE AND LISTEN TO ME??”

“HOW IS HE NOT THE PROBLEM?!”

All the emotions that they had refused to deal with in the last few months were now exploding in their faces.

“—I barely ever see you,” Ginny’s voice dropped to a whisper, her throat sore from all the screaming. Tears were welling in her eyes.

Harry felt a tinge of shame, but couldn’t help the bursting jealousy. “And so you see him instead?”

Ginny stared at him in disbelief. “How could you say that?”

“Don’t pretend you weren’t hiding him from me for months.” As the accusation spilled from his lips, he couldn’t help but think about Hermione, how he’d been seeking for comfort elsewhere too. Merlin. _You are a bloody hypocrite, Harry Potter._

“I—we weren’t doing anything wrong!” Ginny exclaimed.

Harry felt like his heart was going to explode, but he couldn’t stop himself.

“So you admit that you were hiding him from me?”

“I didn’t think it mattered—What are you doing?”

Harry was zipping up his jacket.

“What do I look like I’m doing,” he said with disdain as he grabbed his keys.

Ginny’s face turned bright red in anger. “You are NOT running away from this argument, Harry James Potter!” she yelled as he stomped out of the front door. “Where are you even—”

“Doesn’t matter, apparently,” Harry snapped.

He disapparated before he heard her respond.

#

Spending time in silence with Harry didn’t usually bother Hermione. Didn’t they say that true friendship comes when the silence between two people is comfortable? She treasured their silent moments together. But right now, after hearing Harry reiterate his fight with Dean and the dreadful argument with Ginny, the silence between them was overpowering.

What should she even say?

“Tea?” Hermione offered awkwardly. She glanced at the sullen look on her friend’s face from the kitchen, and knew that he had no interest in caffeine. She still had to ask though, otherwise she’d have to say something more substantial. Something that might lead to the scarier question: Why did he come here?

Hermione wanted to think that it was simply because he had nowhere else to turn to, which was most definitely true, but … was it? And how did they end up here again?

This whole sit down in her living room and have a beverage thing was certainly becoming a routine.

Harry finally moved the bag of ice that he’d pressed up against the bruises on his cheekbone. For a man with little hand-to-hand combat training, Dean had done a fair number on him. “No thanks,” he exhaled. “Do you have anything stronger?” he asked as he took off his coat, laying it down next to him on the couch.

A small furrow formed between Hermione’s brows. “If you mean coffee, then yes,” she said carefully. “If you mean alcohol … I can only offer it as an anti-septic.”

She met his confused gaze with symapthy.

“… You know what happened last time.”

And the time before that.

A blush rose to Harry’s cheeks.

“Right,” he mumbled with a nod. “You’re right.”

Hermione lowered her gaze to the floor and rubbed her arms for warmth, feeling rather uncomfortable as well. Now that she’d been out of the hot bath for a while, she could feel little bumps rising on her skin. Sighing heavily, she ran her hands through her long wet hair. She didn’t notice how Harry swallowed at the sight of her like that, with her spine arched back a little as she tied her hair up in a messy bun. He saw that her nipples were showing faintly through her damp shirt, and willed himself to not imagine kissing and squeezing her soft, round breasts, but to no avail. It was beyond inappropriate right now.

“I’m sorry,” he said, averting his stare before she noticed.

“I wasn’t thinking,” Harry admitted. He felt selfish as hell for coming here, even though he had already wandered around for a good long while before finally deciding to ring her door bell. He ran away from home, but he didn’t run _away_. He ran _here_ …

Because he wanted to _be_ here, more than anywhere else. Dean was right. Harry was mad to see him being the thoughtful significant other that he wished he could be. He was also mad at Ginny, who refused to see Dean’s intentions for what it was. Most of all, he was mad at himself for not putting in the effort to make a difference. He wasn’t trying, because he didn’t want to.

He _wanted to be here._

Harry looked up at the concerned woman standing before him. His closest friend. His so-much-more. Had their friendship really changed forever from one transgression?

… Was it a mistake, if he didn’t want it to be one?

**#**

Back in the Potter household, Ginny sat crumbled on the kitchen floor. In front of her was a pile of dirty laundry, which she had meant to wash that morning, but couldn’t bring herself to. She picked up the offending shirt - the one that Harry had worn on Friday night. It now smelled strongly of old cigarettes, a smell that she hated with a passion. She also hated how Harry couldn’t kick the addiction, especially when he was stressed. She sighed, knowing that their fight came at a horrible time for Harry, but what bothered her was the other smells mixed in with the tobacco. Alcohol stains, sweat … and a perfume she couldn’t place.

“Where did you go?” she muttered to herself helplessly.

“Where did he go?”

“Dean!”

Ginny was taken by surprise. She’d forgotten all about having tasked him with her son. Panicking, she turned to the baby room behind him and saw that James, bless him, had somehow fallen asleep.

“It took some coaxing,” Dean confessed with a small laugh as he closed the door, once Ginny had a good, sure look at her sleeping baby. “And a bit of _Silencio_ ,” he admitted.

Ginny felt so embarrassed, remembering the subject of her and Harry’s argument. She hoped Dean had cast the silencing spell early into the arguing. “I’m sorry,” she apologised. “I totally lost track of things … I’m sorry he lost his temper like that.” She touched his bruised cheek, and noted how there was another dark bruise on his right brow. “I’ll get you some ice—” Dean grabbed her hand before she could go.

“You don’t need to apologise for him, Gin.”

She froze. The gentle way that he said her nickname threatened to give rise to an emotion that she couldn’t deal with right now. Not in front of him.

Growing up with six older male siblings had really toughened Ginny up. She was a fighter, and she would not cry in front of anyone.

Her silenced worried Dean though.

“Is there something I should know?” he asked carefully.

Ginny’s reaction was immediate. “If you’re implying something else other than his ridiculous jealousy, the answer is ‘No’. He’s never been violent with me.” It made her angry that he was even suggesting it.

Dean smiled then.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said, though admittedly relieved by the news. As much as he didn’t believe Harry was abusive like that, his punches were certainly solid.

Ginny looked up at Dean, lost as to what he meant.

“Do you know where he went?” he asked, still holding her hand tightly in his.

A light of recognition shone in her eyes, but quickly dimmed again. “I don’t know,” she confessed, though she couldn’t help but glance at the shirt now lying on top of the laundry pile.

Dean saw suspicion cross her face. He knew that look. After all, Ginny had once suspected Dean for cheating, which had turned out to be a foolish assumption. Dean had been smitten by her. He still was. Though she didn’t seem to see that, even after everything. That she suggested Harry’s jealousy was “ridiculous” confirmed it. But Dean didn’t buy her ignorance.

Pulling her to the sofa, he sat her down and sat down next to her, sliding his other arm over the back of the couch.

“Have you considered,” he whispered, twirling her long hair in his finger. He took a moment to consider what he was about to suggest. “That … _he’s_ the one cheating?”

Ginny would’ve glared at him immediately if she hadn’t suspected it herself.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said instead, but rather weakly. She didn’t look at Dean in the eye.

It was all the confirmation that he needed. She didn’t even make an attempt to slip away from his touch as his arm slid onto her shoulders. He was still twirling her beautiful auburn hair.

“Is it?” he asked, even more softly. “Nothing thrown you off lately … at all?”

Ginny went silent. Indeed, there were plenty of things that were off. Like right now. It was true that Harry would sometimes walk off to let off steam when they fought, but he’d never been gone for more than an hour. Looking up at the clock on the wall, she saw that he’d been gone for at least two or three hours now. Where could he be?

Dean decided he’d push a little further.

“Forgive me for saying this,” he prefaced, as he always did, “but he … really doesn’t deserve you.”

Ginny groaned, releasing his hand finally and moving away from him. “Not that again.”

Dean sighed too, sitting up straight. “Look, you don’t want to hear the truth—”

“It’s nonsense, Dean,” she cut him off, already knowing where the discussion was going. “Harry just had a rough childhood,” she began her usual explanations for her husband’s lack of attention, the ones that have become so old that they sounded like nothing but excuses, even to her. “Look, having a proper family has been a completely foreign concept to him. He’s figuring things out. I just need—”

“—To give him more time?” Dean returned rhetorically. It shut her up.

“How much more time are you going to give him? Why do you refuse to see things as they are?”

Ginny stood up from the sofa indignantly.

“I _am_ seeing things as they are!”

“No, you’re not,” Dean stood up as well, exasperated by her stubbornness. “He walked out on you - he left!” He did a series of backhanded slaps against his hand, emphasising his point. “It’s been HOURS! He could be anywhere, with ANYone—”

“How _dare_ you—”

“Gin, just—”

“Stop calling me that!”

That shut Dean up. They stood in silence for a while, staring at each other. Ginny thought that she was angry at him, but that wasn’t what overwhelmed her. No, it was something else, and she couldn’t be in his presence for a second longer.

“Get—”

“I get it,” Dean snapped before she could finish. It paralysed her.

“I’ll let myself out.”

And then he was out the door.

They were both gone.

She could finally cry.

#

“I’m not sure if I can do this,” Harry said, having second thoughts.

Hermione clasped her hands over his. “Of course you can. Just … try to talk to her again. Calmly this time.”

Harry looked down at their connected hands. He wished he wasn’t saying goodnight again, but what can he do? … It was clear that Hermione wasn’t on the same page with him right now. He’d also left Ginny in a moment of pure rage. Things weren’t over yet. … Or was it?

“God, I don’t know, Hermione. I don’t think—”

“You can’t just walk away from them,” she warned, stopping him before he could be of two minds about it again. There was a nagging evil in her mind, pointing out that if Harry did end things with Ginny, they might be able to stop being so awkward around each other, and maybe move things in a new direction, but that wasn’t relevant right now.

“Even if you decided things aren’t working … between you two,” she pointed out rather uneasily, “Ginny, she will always be a part of your life … You two have James.”

She was right.

Harry knew that she was right.

Hermione was always right.

But that didn’t mean either of them liked her being right.

“Here,” Hermione said with a sigh, looking through her drawers in the kitchen and pulling out her two-way mirrors. She handed him one.

“If this will ease your mind, when you have a moment, let me know how it goes, okay?”

She wasn’t going to open her Floo tonight, not when she had it closed off ever since Friday night. Setting boundaries was important for her, especially with her paranoid concern for Malfoy finding his way to her apartment, but she still wanted to make sure that Harry was okay.

Harry wasn’t sure if it eased his mind, but it was nice to know that he could still speak to her, even if they were apart. He took the mirror and slipped it into his front shirt pocket.

“Thank you,” he said, extending his arms a little before realising that she might not want a hug. Hermione didn’t shy away though. She smiled and wrapped her arms around his neck, like she always had. Harry wrapped his arms around her waist too, and felt her squeeze him close. She was such a wonderful hugger. He didn’t want to let go, even though her damp hair soaked the side of his face. She smelled like apples and citric fruits, and all things fresh and sweet. If only he could hold her like this forever.

#

Ginny was a crying mess. She wasn’t even sure why, but once the floodgates opened, she couldn’t stop. She knew she was pathetic, sitting at her front door crying, but she couldn’t help it. Her husband was missing, she’d pissed off the only friend who knew how fucked up her marriage really was, and her child was sleeping soundly. The night was so quiet, so quiet like that night on James’ birthday, when Harry never came back until the next day.

She had told no one that Harry never returned to the Burrow. In the early hours of the morning, she’d even momentarily apparated home to check if he was there. He wasn’t. And she had returned to her old room at the Burrow, where James was sleeping, until breakfast, and lied to her family that Harry had gone to work first. She only saw him at home around 8, when she’d returned with James. They spoke about Dean at length, and Harry was most definitely late for work, but they never discussed where he was all night. She never asked where he’d been all night.

And here she was, wondering where he went again—when the front door rattled.

Ginny stood up with a start, grabbing for the doorknob.

“Harr—“

“Gin, I’m sorry—”

Dean. 

Ginny’s heart did a somersault. Was she disappointed? Was she relieved? She felt shame rise to the surface as she realised how horribly disheveled she looked.

“No, I’m okay,” she stuttered before he even addressed her red, puffy eyes, but Dean was already kicking his shoes off and pulling her into his arms.

“Dea—!”

“Why do you pretend not to see it!”

He squeezed her close despite her protests.

“What do you mean!” she cried, desperate to get out of his strong arms. “Dean, please—”

“That you’re not okay!” 

“I _am_ okay!”

“You’re not making sense!”

"I am! You’re just biased because you hate Harry. Because, because—”

“Because what?" Dean demanded, rendering Ginny suddenly speechless. Realization dawned on her, and she wished she hadn't pushed him.

His voice dropped to a whisper.

" ... because I love you?”

Ginny couldn't hold back a gasp of shock. Her face turned scarlet. It was all the confirmation he needed. Dean did not shy away from saying it anymore.

“Because I love you,” he declared this time, with all the certainty in the world. “I can see that he’s not giving you everything you need."

He pulled away just enough to look her in the eye. To see that her light blue orbs were brimming with fresh tears. 

"I can see how much work it’s been for you to raise James practically all on your own. I can see that he hasn’t been giving you enough attention. That he sees you and he sees James, but he doesn’t see _you_.”

With every word, he was stepping further back into the hallway, practically carrying her in his arms. Her feet dragged just barely on the hardwood floor. He was so tall compared to her.

“Tell me I can’t see it, Gin,” he said hotly, stroking her tear-stained cheeks with both hands. Ginny still couldn’t find her words. His brutal honesty unnerved her. “I dare you to say that you haven’t noticed it.”

She began to protest again. “De—” but he slammed his lips onto hers before she could start. It felt as if the world was crashing down on them, like the unspoken sexual tension between them suddenly found its tantalising answer. Ginny didn’t know how his tongue gained such easy access to hers, but she found herself drowning in the intensity of his kiss, the insistence of his advances. She thought she’d lost her breath earlier, but now she was truly dizzy. And when Dean finally released her lips for air, she was sure that she would’ve fainted to the floor if she hadn't been holding on to him.

Merlin, _she'd_ been holding on to _him._

“I dare you to say that you haven’t noticed that I am still in love with you,” Dean said again.

His repeated confession was intoxicating, but Ginny didn't have time to think. He captured her lips again as soon as he declared his feelings. Grabbing her hair behind her head by the fistful, Dean moved his other hand to her waist with purpose. His tongue explored her mouth hungrily, forcing her to gasp against his lips, unable to speak. They were lovers once. He knew exactly how to turn her on, and soon his hand was on the buckle of her jeans, unbuttoning and unzipping them until he’d shoved them down just low enough to squeeze his hand in.

Ginny made a stifled sound against his lips as his fingered her mercilessly. She hadn’t been touched in so long. She couldn’t help but wriggle into his hand, but she was also horrified by her lack of inhibition. She tried to move away. Dean didn’t let her. He kept attacking her mouth while pushing her further back into the living room, playing with her clit and expertly pushing her jeans down to her calves with one knee as he dragged her towards the couch. He finally let go of her now bruised lips, allowing Ginny to breathe, but only for a moment. She whimpered in surprise when he pulled at her legs next, dropping her onto the sofa. It all happened in a matter of seconds. His shirt came off, and she gulped at the sight of his nicely toned abs for the second time that day, but she didn't truly understand what he was about to do until he threw her calves over his bare shoulders, looking down at her with a lustfulness that she hadn’t seen in him since their school days. 

Ginny blanched. Her panties were only inches away from his face.

“Dean, you can’t—”

“Remember our safe word?” he said darkly, licking his lips. His nails dug into her thighs as he anchored her securely. 

Ginny couldn’t have blushed any harder at that question. She forgot how bold Dean became when he was aroused, and her mind went into hyperdrive.

“Uh—uh, wait!”

“Not the safe word, babe,” he teased, carefully pushing aside the thin fabric separating him from her pussy. His eyelids dropped and his breathing deepened as he marvelled at what he’d been dreaming about for months. At one point, he had been sure that she would be fine without him, that she was happy, but he felt no hesitation right now. Slowly, tantalisingly, he ran a finger over her folds and moved them apart to get a better look. He was still licking his lips like he was about to have a feast.

“Stop staring!” Ginny practically screamed, utterly embarrassed as she was acutely aware of how her private parts had changed since giving birth. Dean didn’t care.

“You are beautiful,” he declared without embarrassment. “You do look different, you're ... darker now,” he said, examining her labia with interest, “and you don’t have it shaved anymore, which is actually quite sexy—” he hummed with satisfaction as he slid a finger down to her vagina, where her juices were beginning to pool.

“I still want to ravish you,” he whispered.

Ginny was beyond scarlet now, peering at him through the gaps in between her fingers. “Dean … you can’t … please,” she pleaded helplessly.

“Really?” he asked, smearing her juices onto her inner thigh as he sensually rubbed circles on her skin.

Ginny gulped. She could not possibly admit that her heart was racing in anticipation, but Dean could already see how wet she'd become. He lowered his lips to her thighs, and left a trail of kisses until his breath was directly over her pussy.

“You don’t want me to do your favorite thing … ever?”

Ginny let out a cry of anguish as he paused over her clit and threatened to lick her, but didn’t.

“ _You. Are. Evil!_ ” she gasped.

Dean chuckled softly. His breath sent a tingling sensation down her spine.

“I thought you liked being teased like this.”

In response, Ginny made an incomprehensible sound that was somewhere between a moan and a sob.

“Or has he turned you vanilla, babe?”

The way he kept calling her babe was killing her. Ginny closed her eyes, trying to pretend none of this was happening to her right now, except his breath still tickled her where she was most sensitive. And Dean was now chuckling again, obviously knowing that he was right. Harry never struck him as particularly kinky.

Dean began to stroke her thighs once more, one leg after the other, all the way up to her knee, and all the way down. Ginny’s breathing became more and more uneven as he continued to wind her up, avoiding just where it counted. She shuddered violently as he licked and nipped on the sensitive inner side of her thighs. And even though he badly wanted to taste her already, he held back until Ginny looked so flushed that she was about to orgasm without him doing anything more.

“Say it, Gin,” he purred, pinching her ass gently. Ginny opened her eyes with hesitation. She looked up to see that he was still hovering over her, with hooded eyes dark with lust, looking down at her from between her legs.

_Like he had used to, remember?_

Dean did have a sadistic streak in bed.

_He used to do worse._

Ginny’s lips quivered as the truth slowly dawned on her.

_And I liked it._

“Say it,” he threatened again, his grip almost turning painful on her thighs.

Ginny couldn’t believe what she was about to say.

She found herself panting voicelessly. “Eat … me— _GOD!_ ”

He had struck her ass. 

Ginny didn't even dare to admit to herself how much it turned her on, but Dean could see it. She knew he could see it, because he was now grinning widely. And he slapped her ass again, _hard._ She yelped this time, sure that she’d peed herself a little. 

 _“Louder,”_  Dean ordered, running his nails up the sensitive skin on her ass now, making her hiss. It was so forceful, so erotic. Something snapped inside her.

“Oh, god—GODDAMN IT, DEAN _, EAT MY PUSSY ALREADY! PLEASE!”_

His victorious smirk disappeared quickly between her legs.

“Yes, M’am.”

The moment his tongue made contact with her clit, Ginny thought that her heart would explode in satisfaction. She felt him slide his tongue up and down her sensitive pussy, all the way from her vagina to her clit in one long stroke, again, and again, and again. And just as she thought that she might climax, he changed to stroke her sideways, sucked on her clit, and stroked tantalisingly slow circles all over her pussy until she couldn't help but buckle her hip and cry. God, she couldn’t help herself. A tear trickled into her hair. It felt so. good. She began to rock her hips to his rhythm, and Dean responded by pulling her ass even closer to his face. Ginny groaned at the need for more. She reached up and grabbed his hair as he too sank down and dropped her gently onto the couch. She watched as his lust-filled eyes turned their attention to her flushed, enraptured face, and felt his smile against her vulva. _How dare he. How dare he be so fucking sexy—!_

With one hand still supporting her ass, Dean interlaced his other hand’s fingers with hers in his hair, encouraging her to shove his face into her pussy however way she wanted to.

Ginny squeezed his hand and moaned. He was suddenly sucking and slurping against her clit, loudly, insistently. All of her senses focused on his skilled and loving tongue and lips. The overwhelmingly nostalgic sensation and erotic sounds unwound her. She ground her hips into his face with abandon, and Dean lapped up her juices just as eagerly, groaning against her clit. It was the vibrations of his voice that finally sent her over the edge. Ginny let out an ecstatic cry. Her vision went, and she came violently all over his face, over, and over, and over again.

She must have lost consciousness momentarily. When Ginny came to, Dean was kissing her, deliberately leaving the taste of her juices on her lips. He looked positively pleased with himself, hovering over her on the sofa.

“I’ll happily do that again,” he chuckled, lightly sliding a finger down her soaking folds. It almost made her come again, and she felt like kissing the man for making her feel like a desirable woman for the first time in so long.

It was then that Ginny remembered that she had a husband. Her heart sank as she saw the clock on the wall out of a corner of her eye. It was long past midnight, and Harry was still not home. She’d know if he was. There was no way he wouldn’t have stomped through the front door blazing a curse if he'd come home to this. And she felt certain that she was going to regret it, but the thought of her husband possibly fucking some whore out there while leaving her hanging like this—it enraged her. It enraged her enough to place her hand over Dean’s crotch when he moved in to kiss her again.

Dean paused with surprise, clearly not expecting her to take initiative, but smiled and silently continued with his ministrations as he took her now willing lips in his. He smiled into their kiss as he felt her unzip his khakis and slid her hand into his pants to grab the wickedly thick cock that she had used to enjoy so much. Ginny moaned into his lips as she squeezed and explored his member. It was then that Dean knew for certain, even if she’d never admit it, that she’d been yearning for his dick all this time. 

He loved how brave she was feeling finally.

This was the Ginny that he knew. The Ginny who would grab his twitching cock as though she commanded it. The Ginny who was game for a little fun, a little light sadomasochism. He could tell that she was considering how his dick would feel inside her now, and Dean grinned roguishly, licking his lips again. Shuffling swiftly out of his pants, he grabbed her ass and moved so that his cock was positioned against her wet, dripping pussy.

“Tell me how you want it,” he ordered, eyes not leaving her face. She looked incredibly seductive, leaning back like that on the couch, with her halo of flaming red hair framing her heart-shaped face. A small part of him was terrified that she would back away now, but Ginny wriggled close to him until their lips were only inches apart again. She moved her hips just enough so that his tip was inside her. Dean inhaled sharply as she pushed him against her soft, wet entrance.

“Promise,” she murmured into his lips as she kissed him. “Promise you’ll make me scream like that again.”

Dean gave her an impish smile. The one that she'd loved. The one that she still loved so much. 

“Yes, M’am," he breathed, slowly lowering Ginny's hips down his thick, aching member. It elicited a sigh of pure bliss from her, and Dean laughed again, softly. 

"Yes, M'am." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mmmhm, I've been dying to finally write Deanny smut. Songs featured are "Me, Myself And I" by Beyonce, "Oblivion (Creation)" by Jhene Aiko, and "Sex With Me" by Rihanna.
> 
> Next chapter: Scandal


	8. Scandal

The media industry was cut-throat. One misstep, and your reputation could crumble overnight. Padma Patil understood this well. Four years at the Daily Prophet would teach you a thing or two about recognising a gold mine exclusive from a landmine. This fresh hot scoop, however, was a rare black box gamble, and Padma didn’t like gambling with her career.

“You don't think it’s a sham?” she asked, her anxiety barely concealed.

Her editor raised an intrigued eyebrow to her question. “Patil, your timidity surprises me,” he said, scanning over her manuscript. “Were you not the one who ran the Weasley-Parkinson exclusive?”

Padma bit the side of her cheek. “It’s called wariness,” she muttered under her breath. “I had Finnagan follow the Granger-Weasleys for that story—still do.”

Her boss chuckled then. “I know.”

She rolled her eyes. “Tell your boyfriend to be more discreet, will you?”

“Not boyfriend,” he replied with a snort, but Padma ignored him. She pulled out a large black and white photo from her files—the original—and placed it on his desk over the manuscript, forcing him to take a good look.

“What I’m saying is,” she said, jabbing her finger at the photo. “I didn’t direct _this_.”

He didn’t even glance at it, just pushed it away so he could finish reading. “You mean hiring photographers to stalk your victims,” he said.

“I mean collecting solid evidence—No!” She cut him off as soon as a grin began to form on his lips. “Don’t get all devil’s advocate holier-than-thou on me. You’ve been in this business for much longer than I have.”

“Just by a year,” he chuckled, flipping the pages. 

Padma took a deep breath. Her patience was wearing thin, but years of experience told her that pissing him off would end the conversation immediately.

“Look,” she said, sitting down across from his desk. “I’m … asking for professional advice.” It stroked his ego, she could tell. He still wasn't looking at her, but he was listening.

“We don’t even _really_ know who this is,” she said, pointing at the woman in the photo again. “Should I be betting on something this risky?”

He finally glanced at the photo, though only cursorily. “I don’t really see a problem here,” he said lazily. His eyes trailed back to the sensational headline that she’d chosen for the accompanying article. “This isn’t really a scoop about _her_ , is it? Or do you not trust your source?”

Padma gritted her teeth. “ _You_ headhunted Canis,” she spat, snatching the photo from his grasp. “ _You_ tell me.”

He cracked another smile at that. It made her so mad, how facetious he could be. Padma used to think he was cute, back when they were still in school, and he had seemed so … supportive. So gentle. But the more she got to know him, the less she found him “cute”, or supportive, _or_ gentle. Especially when he had so much power over her. One word, and he could take her exclusives away from her.

Though in this case, she might welcome it for a change.

“It’s well written,” he said, finally passing the manuscript back to her. “Just get Braithwaite’s approval on this,” he referred to his co-editor.

That was when she realized that he hadn’t signed it off. He didn’t even write a single comment.

“Why can’t _you_ just sign—”

“As for Canis,” he interrupted. “I can assure you his integrity as a journalist,” he said, leaning back into his ergonomic chair with a supercilious grin. “After all, his ex-colleagues in the Sports section are still … _pretty_ upset to lose him.”

“Right. I’m sure that they _love_ having the person who headhunted him as their new boss.” Padma couldn’t help herself. She’d been up since 4:30 A.M., writing the damned manuscript, and now this arsehole was refusing to give her a simple signature just to make her life harder!

He was unaffected by her sarcasm though. "We have high hopes for his replacement," he mused.

Padma scoffed at that. _Oh, this is rich._

“Yes, _your ex,_  who's going to be _so_ happy to be here with _you_ after she sees _this._ ” She waved the manuscript at him teasingly, but paused when she noticed that his cocksure grin was no longer there.

Padma blinked. “Oh, shit.”

“Language,” her boss said tiredly.

“Was this your doing?”

There was a curious pause.

“Intriguing theory, Patil.”

Padma laughed through her nose. Clicking her heels, she stood up and packed away the photo and manuscript with sudden enthusiasm.

“You’re a surprisingly bad liar, Thomas,” she said, closing his office door behind her.

Dean Thomas laughed silently.

“But did I lie?”

#

Harry woke up with a crippling hangover.

_For Merlin’s sake … how much did I have last night?_

The world was blurry, too. “Glasses …” He blindly groped over to what he thought would be his bedside stand, but found that he was running his fingers through long hair.

Harry paused in dread.

His head was pounding, his heart beat even faster.

_Why am I nuzzling against a woman’s breasts?_

He moved cautiously to look up, close enough to see her face. An unfamiliar face.

_Fuck._

A wave of panic rushed over him—except he did know her.

Long raven hair. Softly shimmering olive skin. A glamour facade over the woman that he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about in the last two weeks. He was dreaming about Hermione. _Again._

Harry swore that he’d tried to suppress his delusions. He swore he’d been trying to stop thinking about her. But nuzzling further into her soft breasts now, he couldn’t help but thank his wild imaginations for giving him this short moment of bliss. No good dream ever lasted long enough. Harry slid his hand slowly through her silky dark hair, down her slender neckline, and found the first button on her soft blue blouse. He undid it, slid down, undid another, and then another. His deftness was surprising, really, considering his hungover state and poor eyesight, but he was dreaming, wasn’t he? It surely felt like it.

Soon he’d exposed enough of her heaving breasts to admire them up close.

_Lord._

His breath hitched.

Hermione wasn’t wearing a bra.

The sight of her soft skin reminded him of the last time he’d seen her. The way her long, damp hair made her oversized T-shirt slightly translucent. The way her hard nipples showed through the thin fabric as she arched her back to tie her hair into a messy bun.

A nagging thought in the back of his mind asked how he could’ve possibly ended up in her arms after that, but all he could focus on now were Hermione’s enticingly beautiful nipples. Gently squeezing her soft tits, Harry trailed kisses along the edges of one nipple, and then the other, running his tongue in circles until they slowly started to perk up. He felt her stir under his touch. A soft mewling sound escaped her lips. Her breathing was shallow, and he could feel her tensing and relaxing next to him, like she was having a lewd dream, too. Harry felt his heart beating hard against his chest as he pressed on with slightly more force, sucking onto her hardening nipples. Hermione stirred even more. She wrapped her arms around his head, surprising him even more when she panted against his forehead, mumbling his name.

 _His_ name.

The thought that she was welcoming his touch gave Harry the courage to slide his hand down her back, to her ass. _God, this couldn’t be real._ She’d just rejected him last night. It felt sinful to be touching her like this, even if it were just a dream, and with her looking like a stranger under glamour, no less. His bad eyesight only made him focus even more on how her skin felt. It radiated such warmth. It smelled so good. Her bum was so firm, and his heart pounded in his ears as he slid his hand through the top of her jeans, squeezing a handful. He could feel her dampness already. Harry slid his hand further down until he felt her pussy.

“You’re wet,” he whispered into her chest as he licked her skin and pushed a finger into her entrance. Hermione whined softly, squeezing him closer.

“You’re _so_ wet,” he groaned, pumping her pussy as he moved to kiss her.

“… Harry—?”

Her soft, confused mumble against his lips jolted him awake. Hermione’s eyes were half-open.

_Wait._

Harry backed away so fast. He hit her bedside table, rattling his glasses. _Glasses!_ Harry fumbled for them awkwardly and put them on, just in time to see Hermione sit up. The hangover hit him like a nauseating wave as his eyes adjusted.

_Fuck._

_Wasn’t I dreaming?_

Hermione turned to him.

_This is reality._

_Fuck._

_Fuck, fuck._

“I’m sorry.” The apology tripped out of his mouth before Hermione said anything. She looked exhausted, and very much discombobulated. Her cheeks were flushed.

“I though it was a dream,” Harry continued to mumble. “Your—” He pointed hesitantly at her shirt.

Hermione squealed, finally awake enough to notice that it was undone. Harry watched her redo her buttons in embarrassed silence. His head was whirling with the improbability of what had just happened, but he couldn’t stop thinking about one thing.

“… You were mumbling my name.”

It was barely above a whisper, but Hermione heard him. She paused half way up her buttoning, blushing profusely. She couldn’t believe it. The last thing she wanted was for him to know that _she_ thought she was dreaming about _him_.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said again, realising that he had said that private thought out loud. “I … might still be drunk.”

Hermione could barely look at him. She finally finished her buttons, and an awkward silence descended upon them. Harry couldn’t bear it.

“Are you mad at me?”

“Why didn’t you go home?”

They spoke at the same time.

Harry didn’t understand her question. _Go home?_ “What do you mean?” His head was banging against his skull again.

“Here,” he heard Hermione say worriedly, placing a tiny bottle in his hand. He looked down and vaguely saw the label for a hangover antidote. Harry hastily unscrewed and gulped it down without so much as asking for water. Of course, the next thing he knew, he was choking on the bitter remedy.

“Careful,” Hermione said as she handed him a glass of water. He took the glass gratefully.

“What happened?” Hermione asked again when she’d sat back down in front of him, looking concerned now. It was a relief, regardless, that they could temporarily avoid talking about the awkward incident just then.

Soberness returned to Harry slowly. _Right, what happened?_ He looked around Hermione’s bedroom, feeling more confused than before. He tried to recall the last thing that he remembered. “How … did I end up here again?”

Hermione pursed her lips. A tiny frown formed between her brows. “Do you remember getting drunk at the Comet?” she asked.

Harry put down his now empty cup gingerly. “What … comet?”

Hermione’s jaw dropped a little. “Why were you there if you don’t know it?”

 _“_ Uh.”

It was all very confusing. He knew he came to Hermione’s apartment after his fight with Ginny. He remembered Hermione telling him to go home, and her giving him one of her two communication mirrors—he reached into his shirt pocket.

“It’s here now,” Hermione said, pulling open her side table drawer and showing him the two mirrors, now reunited.

“So ... you do remember leaving here.”

Harry nodded without making eye contact. He felt nervous under her gaze. For one, he was embarrassed that he had just been groping her in her sleep until a moment ago. As far as he was concerned, it was non-consensual, and it wracked him with guilt. For another, Hermione was still under glamour, and even though he knew that it _was_ her, having such a gorgeous, strange vixen stare at him so intensely was heart-racing.

Hermione sighed. _He doesn’t seem to remember anything after being here at all._ She threw her long, dark hair onto one shoulder, and realising that she’d been too tired to undo her glamour the night before, got off the bed to get her wand. Harry didn’t even notice that he was holding his breath until she’d already waved it away and looked like herself again.

_By god._

Glamoured or not, Hermione in her crumpled street clothes and curls in a tangled halo still turned him on, maybe more so now than before she’d cancelled the disguise. Nonetheless, Harry realized too from her disheveled appearance that she didn’t get the chance to change before falling asleep. It must’ve been a rough night for her.

“Was I—”

“Smashed, yes,” Hermione answered before he could finish. She was failing now to hide her disapproval, though she was still commiserative. She just had to hold her tongue from reprimanding him further. _Why did I not anticipate this?_ She should have taken him home herself the first time he’d left here, so that this—whatever this is—wouldn’t have happened.

Then again, she hadn’t wanted to witness the Potter couple’s fallout, or their making up—whichever one she would’ve been forced to witness.

She wasn’t sure which scenario would’ve made her feel worse.

Picking up litter from the floor to distract herself, Hermione quietly admitted to herself that she was scared. 

_What the hell am I doing?_

She didn’t want to confront her guilt for having slept with Harry all those nights ago, but she couldn’t even be a proper friend for him now, or for Ginny, for that matter.

Harry couldn’t help but wonder what he did the night before to agitate Hermione so much. (He tried not to think about what he’d done to her as soon as he woke up as well.) He saw the crumpled tissue paper that she was picking up, and the rubbish bin next to the bed. A blush rose to his cheeks.

_God. I must’ve been a mess._

He had to ask.

“Did we—”

Hermione shook her head immediately, without even looking back. Of course, she was anticipating the question. Neither of them knew if they were relieved or disappointed that they hadn’t had sex again, but, for Harry, the knowledge that he hadn’t done anything he couldn’t remember was a relief in and of itself.

It was hard enough trying to navigate their ambiguous relationship as it was.

Silence descended between them again as they cleaned the room. Harry found vomit stains on the side of the bed that he’d slept on, confirming his fears. He found his wand, too, stuffed between the pillows.

“I’m sorry,” he said remorsefully for the umph time that morning. He began scorgifying the sheets.

Hermione paused in her cleaning to look at him. She shook her head sympathetically.

“It’s alright … purging it was probably for the best. I mean, you really drank a lo—” She paused, sensing his dread, but Harry nodded to let her know that it was okay. He wanted to hear it. Their eyes met then, sparking a sense of longing that Hermione had tried to suppress many times in just the last few days. She looked away.

“I didn’t hear from you after you left the first time,” she recalled softly, touching the mirrors on her bedside table. “I figured you forgot, that maybe you already made up with Ginny.” She paused again, remembering feeling … jealous. That was the word for it, wasn’t it? She had vehemently denied it to herself the night before, but the longer it took for Harry to contact her, the more scared she became of what she’d see if she checked in the mirror.

 _What if they were—_ No. Harry really didn’t need to know how she felt about potentially snooping on their make up sex. Looking at him again hesitantly, Hermione noticed that he now stood very still, like he was petrified. His facial expression, though, had changed to something that resembled recognition.

“You remember something?”

Harry frowned, but didn’t offer a yes or a no.

“Anyway …” Hermione pushed on as it became clear that he didn’t have an answer. “I couldn’t quite fall asleep, so I fina—I checked the mirror. All I saw was colourful, flashing lights at first. It took me a while, but I realized that you were at a nightclub of sorts. Wasn’t sure which one though, so I went back to the Latin club—”

Harry was barely listening.

“The comet?” he asked vaguely.

“Not the Latin club, no,” Hermione answered, “but yes, it is _a_ club, in this neighbourhood—you don’t remember it?” she asked again. Harry shook his head. He tried to retrace his footsteps, but to no avail. “I can’t remember how I got there,” he finally said, upset at himself for being so reckless. In muggle London, no less.

“God.” He paled. “Did I do something? Did I use magic in front of—”

“No, thankfully, no,” Hermione interjected. “Well …. you weren’t under disguise,” she admitted regretfully.

Harry groaned at his stupidity.

“You were only passed out on the bar table,” Hermione added gently. “I paid the bartender,” she continued, trying to ease his shame. “Gave him a large tip too, so we don’t have to worry about—”

“A large tip?” Despite himself, Harry laughed. It was so like her to take the time to do that, even when the situation clearly required their immediate withdrawal.

“I didn’t want a scuffle!” Hermione protested, going bright red. Harry grinned. Her defensiveness was endearing, especially as he realized that she was explaining herself for taking care of him.

Hermione was still upset though.

“I had to _somehow_ inconspicuously drag you into a bloody bathroom stall, Harry, and then apparate us out—STOP LAUGHING!—All thanks to you, I can never go back there now. I’ll have you know it was my favorite place—”

“Really?”

Hermione clamped her mouth shut, suddenly remembering that her bias for The Comet was mostly due to its dimly lit back alleyways. They were perfect for making out with strangers. She’d only perused their establishment for just that very purpose a couple of weeks ago.

“Anyway,” she huffed, grabbing a towel and throwing it at him. “I found you. You’re in one piece. It’s morning now. Clean up and transfigure your shirt. We got to get going.”

Harry was bewildered by the sudden change in topic, but saw the clock on the wall, and quickly realised that she had a point. It was already too late for him to go home and get changed before work.

“Guess I shouldn’t be taking the walk of shame,” he mumbled as he pulled off his shirt and walked to her bathroom to use the sink and wipe himself down.

If he knew how hotly Hermione’s cheeks burned at the sight of his naked torso, Harry would’ve smiled even more, but she had turned away already, crossing her arms against her chest to try and get rid of the memory of his hands on her body, his lips against hers as she woke up. 

 _Lord, this can't keep happening._  

Just the thought of it made her wet again.

#

Sometimes, Harry wondered if he and Hermione had really had sex with each other. After all, how was it possible that she would’ve agreed? Hermione was always the level-headed one. Always thinking one step ahead. This morning, she’d convinced him that it would be best to arrive at work separately—just in case. As per her advice, Harry apparated to the closest public bathroom access point for the Ministry of Magic. From there, he shot down through a chute into the Ministry Atrium.

Harry felt eyes everywhere he went. Not that it was anything new for The-Boy-Who-Lived, but it felt extra uncomfortable today. He told himself that he was being paranoid. That this was just any other day.

But it wasn’t just any other day.

He’d only walked pass the large fountain in the lobby of the Ministry, still a long way from the elevators to the Auror’s Office, when chaos came crashing down on him. A mob seemed to appear out of nowhere, flashing blinding lights with microphones shoved in his face.

_“MR. POTTER! WHO IS SHE?”_

_“DEPUTY CHIEF! HAVE YOU SEEN THE PROPHET THIS MORNING?”_

_“ARE THINGS NOT GOING WELL IN THE POTTER HOUSEHOLD?”_

_“ARE YOU CHEATING ON YOUR WIFE?”_

_“HOW DO YOU EXPLAIN YOURSELF?”_

Over a dozen reporters from some of the worst gossip magazines in the British wizarding community were in Harry’s face, bombarding him with question after question. Rita Skeeter was front and centre, letting her quill scribble away. Someone was waving the Daily Prophet in his face, but he could barely read in the blinding lights.

_What the fuck is happening???_

In a state of panic, Harry fought his way through the throngs of journalists, dodging their microphones with his raised arms as he pushed towards an elevator. When he was finally able to press the call button, it felt like such sweet victory, except a strong force sucked him in like a portkey, and the world closed in on him.

_Shit._

#

_1\. 2. 3._

_This isn’t happening._

_4\. 5. 6. 7._

_This isn’t real._

Ginny kept counting, willing for the panic attack to go away.

_8\. 9. 10. 11. 12._

_It’s going to be fine._

She heard rushed footsteps outside the door.

_13\. 14. 15._

“Where is she?”

_16\. 17._

“Is she’s alright?”

“Just keep looking.”

_18._

_19._

_20._

_21._

_22._

Someone stopped outside the door.

_23._

_24._

A knock.

_25._

_26._

Another knock.

_Go away._

_27\. 28. 29—_

“ _Alohomora._ ”

“No,” she whimpered.

The door opened only momentarily, letting the corridor lights flood in. It quickly closed, and she was enveloped in darkness again, except she wasn’t alone anymore.

“Broomstick closet, huh.”

It wasn’t even a question.

“Go away, Dean,” Ginny rasped, her voice hoarse from the crying.

Dean didn’t leave. Just waved his wand at the door once again. “ _Silencio_ ,” he said, waving his wand once more. “ _Colloportus._ ”

“Leave me alone,” Ginny breathed, burying her head in her chest, but Dean wouldn’t let her. He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her to her feet.

“I said, leave me alone!” Ginny snapped, pushing him away, which was admittedly pointless in such a tiny space. Dean only pulled her closer.

“I just need a moment—” her voice cracked as tears began to pour again. “For fuck’s sake, why can’t you just let me be?”

Dean laughed drily as he squeezed her tight. “You really need to learn to be vulnerable, Gin,” he whispered, stroking her soft hair.

It was Ginny’s turn to laugh, except it was a derisive snicker. “So what—you can have me weep my eyes out in public?”

She shoved him, hard. “So our _colleagues_ in the Entertainment Column—which is under YOUR JURISDICTION, BY THE WAY!” she choked. “So they can get another headline out of my shame? ‘ _Ex-Harpies Chaser Can’t Satisfy Boy Wonder!’_ ‘ _Deputy Chief Auror’s Muggle Prostitute Scandal: Wife Cries Ugly Tears At Work!_ ’—TELL ME YOU WEREN’T IN ON THIS!”

Dean was right to cast the silencing spell.

“First of all,” he responded evenly. “That’s too long of a headline.”

She shoved him again. “Not funny!”

“Secondly,” he pulled her into an embrace, even though Ginny wasn’t having it.

“You’re crazy to think I’d approve a gossip article about your husband.”

“Why should I trust you!?” she stabbed a finger in his chest. “Tell me who took the photo.”

Dean shook his head.

Ginny shoved him against the door this time. “See?!”

“Stop that,” he coughed. “You can see for yourself on the article—”

“Right, Padma Patil. The _bitch_ who tainted my brother’s name—”

“He _was_ cheatin—ow!”

“And ‘Canis’!” Ginny continued, laughing sarcastically. “An ALIAS! How would I know you’re not responsib—hey!”

She was ready to strike again, but he caught her fist this time, and quickly switched positions with her to pin her hand to the door. Ginny let out a small yelp as he pushed her up against it with his whole body, demanding her attention. They could barely see each other in the dark, but he could feel her hot, angry breath on his face. Her hand flexed and clenched uncomfortably in his grasp, like she was about to hit him again.

She probably was.

“Listen,” Dean growled, a little cross at her violence. “ _He_ fucked up.” He felt her strength falter and continued without mercy. “ _He_ was fucking around, just like you suspected.”

“Stop.” Ginny felt her tear ducts becoming active again at those brutal words. “Stop,” she said once more, but Dean didn’t stop there.

“Fuck him, Gin,” he said. “Fuck that guy.”

She was going to argue again, but her lips were suddenly covered by his. A bitter taste of coffee overwhelmed her senses as Dean assertively explored her mouth. His grip on her hand tightened to the point that she couldn’t feel her fingers anymore. Ginny panicked. His other hand was already hastily pushing up her pencil skirt, and he'd pressed his thigh up between hers.

“Dean,” she pled with significantly less aggression as soon as he let her lips go. “Please don’t,” she begged as he licked his fingers and watched her with hooded eyes. “It’s bad enough that—!” Ginny gasped. Dean pushed her panties aside, deftly slipping his wet fingers down to her pussy. Ginny tried to ignore his ministrations, but her mind went blank as soon as he found her sensitive nub, drawing tantalisingly slow circles over it, over and over again. In that moment, she didn’t care if all the witches and wizards in Britain were, at that very moment, drooling over the scandalous news of her husband’s wild night out. She had assumed the worst when Harry didn’t return home the night before. She thought it could still get worse even then. Harry could have returned home to find her fucking her new boss—of all people, the man he was suspicious of this whole time. She had no idea that it could get _so_ much worse.

The whole bloody world could find out about her husband’s infidelity.

And yet, here she was, revelling in the thrill of her own adultery. A moan escaped her lips as Dean’s fingers slid further down to her already soaking wet pussy. Ginny couldn’t—didn’t want to—think. She knew it was insane. She knew it was irresponsible. But after weeks of being neglected by her husband, culminating in his scandalous photo with a strange woman plastered all over the newspapers—Ginny couldn’t shake the indignation and loneliness anymore, not unless she got some sweet sex-fuelled revenge herself. And Merlin, was Dean good at making her forget it all. She couldn’t focus on anything now but his middle and ring fingers, which finally found her entrance. She focused on how they pushed in slowly, teasingly, until she couldn’t wait anymore. Ginny bucked her hips to meet his thrust. She felt Dean smile smugly into their kiss, but she didn’t care. If it meant that she could get her release right now—if it meant that she could feel loved for once—he can win this round. He can make her feel good.

Wrapping her free arm around his shoulders, Ginny signalled that she wanted this too. Dean let her hand go finally, letting her wrap both arms around his neck as he deepened the kiss hungrily. Her hips met his fingers’ every thrust, making an erotic, squelching sound that would surely be heard through the door if not for the silencing spell. She hated how Dean had thought it through so far ahead. She’d been crying in shame a moment ago, for fuck’s sake. Now she was already on the brink of an orgasm because of him.

“Fuck me,” Ginny whispered in between their kisses. She’d abandoned all sense of shame. “Fuck me, Dean,” she said again, more loudly. Just the thought of his thick, hard cock inside her could make her come already.

“Not yet,” he breathed back, pulling his fingers out of her pussy to rub her clit again. Ginny let out a frustrated whimper as he kept pushing her to a high, but moving positions the moment she was close to climaxing.

“You’ll have to come with my fingers today.”

“Please,” she begged. Somewhere in the back of her mind, the fact that he said 'today', as in ''this will happen again', sent a chill up her spine in a way that Ginny couldn't comprehend. Dean only responded with a chuckle as he pulled out his fingers, leaving her wanting. He waited until she was practically humping him before pushing his fingers inside her wet entrance again, making her moan in anticipation as he trailed kisses up her neck. “I’ll fuck you properly when you get back,” he said into her ear.

Ginny halted. 

“Get back?”

“Glasgow,” Dean said, without skipping a beat. “I’m sending you to help report the Quidditch Cup.”

Ginny badly wanted to push him away now, but she was on the verge of climaxing, and any sudden movement could ruin it all. “What in Godrick’s name are you … ” she groaned. He was still pumping his fingers inside her. “What are you talking about?”

“I need you to start shadowing Kayla’s reporting,” Dean explained. How he was so calmly speaking about work while slowly building up the tension within her, Ginny had no idea. “Plus,” he continued to say. “You’ll get away from all this media drama—no one else will know you’re going,” he soothed. “I already asked Molly to take care of James while you’re gone.”

Ginny had been _this_ close to considering his suggestion, but that last comment changed her attitude immediately. “How dare you—that is not your decision to make!”

“It’s just two days,” Dean protested, “A day and a half, really.” He pushed her tight up against the wall to prevent her from fighting him, but Ginny was still struggling to push him away. Orgasm be damned. “James is MY son!” She was beyond livid. “You don’t get to decide what I do with MY family!”

“Gin,” Dean pleaded, pausing his ministrations inside her. He could barely see her in the dark, but could tell that she’d turned her head away from him in anger. If he wouldn’t let her go, at the least she would refuse to look at him.

“Come on,” Dean groaned. He knew he should’ve kept that last part from her until later. “Babe, I’m sorry—even your mum agreed that it’ll kill two birds with one stone.”

Ginny felt the blood rush to her head. The thought of her mother having read the news about Harry, and the thought that they’d made the decision _for_ her, _together._ It was too much. She had a strong urge to slap him across the face, but Dean had her pinned so tightly against the door - she could barely breathe as is. The best she could do was to continue looking away from him, refusing his attempts to kiss her again, but his hard-on was still pressed up against her thigh, and his fingers curled inside her, reminding her that they were in the middle of something good.

“You can’t do this to me,” Ginny complained, less convincingly. Her breathing shallowed the moment Dean began pumping his fingers once more. He didn’t say anything, just waited until she would look at him again. When she finally yielded, and their eyes met in the low light, Ginny saw the intensity in his dark orbs and knew that she had no chance. He captured her lips before she could make another peep again. His snogging was so rough, like he was mad at her, and his grip on her hip was painful as he rubbed his dick against her leg demandingly, urging her to give in. Ginny bucked her hips against his fingers, unable to resist anymore, and Dean let out a deep, satisfied groan in response.

It felt incredible. Ginny couldn’t lie. She loved leaning into his attentive and insistent caresses. She loved letting her mind go blank as he fingered her senseless. And by God, if she could get away from London for even one day, away from her cheating, lying husband, away from the local media, she’d happily do so.

Two days, he said.

Just two days.

God, she’d do anything to ride Dean’s dick right now.

#

Hermione spent most of the day in a whirlwind of emotions. It was already lunch hour, but she still hadn’t seen Harry since she’d seen the Daily Prophet article. She’d barely stepped foot in the Ministry Atrium earlier that morning, when Kingsley Shacklebolt’s security officers escorted her directly to the Minister’s office, before the swarms of paparazzi could get to her.

It was a wise decision.

If Hermione had found out the news the same way that Harry had, she would’ve had more than a few unkind words for Padma Patil, the Prophet Senior Correspondent who wrote the nonsense article about Harry’s drunk night out with a “muggle prostitute” doing “things that Mrs. Ginerva Potter definitely would not have approved.”

Oh, Hermione had _plenty_ of pent up anger towards the Ravenclaw alumna, who had written many a dramatised article about her and Ron as well. Hermione's spontaneous reaction would’ve likely been a scandal of its own. Not even the whole Auror’s Office would’ve been able to stop her.

Once she’d calmed down, Hermione immediately offered making a public statement with Harry, to clear up the misunderstanding, but Kingsley was against it.

“We will not be holding a press conference against the allegations,” he’d said. “And stay away from the spotlight, please.” He handed her a thick case file for the upcoming Blood Equality Act Wizengamot hearing. “You should be focusing on our defence for Friday right now.”

“Please, Kingsley.” Hermione took the case file, but quickly set it aside. “I can demonstrate that he wasn’t hiring a sex worker. In fact, I can show you right now—”

“That won’t be necessary.” Kingsley had said, stopping her from casting the glamour spell. “I am aware of what actually happened.” Hermione felt a blush creep up to her cheeks.

“But Harry doesn’t want to make a public statement,” the Minister continued to explain. “And I agreed with him that it’s for the best, so please respect that.”

Hermione didn’t agree. She had immediately stormed off to Harry’s office to talk sense into him, but the Deputy Chief Auror’s office was locked shut. It was dark inside as well.

Kingsley assured her that Harry was fine. He'd made special arrangements to keep the Deputy Chief Auror away from the paparazzi, locked away writing his department quarterly reports somewhere nobody would disturb him. She understood that Kingsley was being protective, but it miffed her no less that she, of all people, wasn’t allowed to see him. For Merlin’s sake, she was involved!

Hermione imagined how Harry was feeling at the moment. She wondered if he’d been in touch with Ginny— _Lord—_ she didn’t want to imagine being in Ginny’s position right now.

“Here’s your repaired quill, Ms. Granger.”

Hermione looked up from the book that she had been staring at absentmindedly. It was a random astrology book that Professor Trelawney would’ve probably approved. Hermione certainly had zero interest. She just needed to do something while her thoughts ran wild, waiting at Flourish and Blotts. 

Mr. Blotts, the one who had spoken, handed her a paper case containing the old quill that she had broken the day before, when she was speaking with Percy. 

“Five Galleons for the nib,” Mr. Blotts said, punching in the numbers at the cashier. “Though I’d highly recommend you get a new quill, miss. This one won’t last much longer.”

Hermione smiled noncommittally. She’d settled for this frail old, quill, because her good quill had been missing for a few days now. She wasn’t ready to buy a brand new one just yet. Thanking Mr. Blotts, she glanced at her watch as she left the bookstore. Lunch hour was almost over, and the sky was getting a little gloomy. Best run back to the Ministry.

“They said it’s going to rain.”

She looked up, surprised by the familiar voice.

“Hey, ‘Mione.”

“ … Hi, Ron.”

Of course, this was Diagon Alley, and his shop was on the way to the Ministry. Hermione shouldn’t be so surprised to bump into him, but it felt like forever ago since she’d seen her ex husband. In reality, it hadn’t even been two weeks. 

“Out for lunch?”

Hermione nodded. “And some errands,” she said, waving the Flourish and Blotts package as they both started walking in the same direction.

“Business is good, I assume?” she asked softly, glancing down at his armful of Weasley’s Wizarding Wheeze products. It felt odd to not know each other’s daily routines anymore.

Ron smiled, more enthusiastically this time. “Yeah, about to send a new batch to Hogsmeade for the school year,” he said, readjusting the overflowing toys in his arms. “You’d definitely disapprove of George’s new inventions.”

Hermione found herself smiling at that. “I’m sure they’re wicked.”

“In every sense of the word.”

They chuckled, easing the tension a little.

“ … How’s your, uh, equal blood … uh, case coming along?”

She could tell that he was trying to keep the conversation flowing.

“We’ll see on Friday.”

“Right.”

Silence.

It was still awkward. After all, they hadn’t spoken since James’ birthday party, and that wasn’t the most pleasant of conversations.

“I’m sorry,” Ron said on cue, like he’d been reading her thoughts. “About what Pansy said, and …” he blushed at the memory of Ginny reprimanding him for the loud sex. “And well, I’m … sorry.”

Hermione cast her eyes to the cobblestone pavement and smiled a little. She’d thought it wouldn’t make a difference to receive an apology from him, but she was wrong. It did ease her pain, even if just a little.

“Who would’ve thought?" she sighed. Ron raised an eyebrow.

"Never thought I'd hear you apologise on Pansy Parkinson’s behalf one day.”

He grinned then. She had a point.

“You never did anything wrong, you know.”

Hermione Granger, the perfect Know-It-All. It was an old joke. So old that it made her smile. Yet his words were also laced with bitterness. One that hinted at his deeper complex towards her personality, her success … and her unwillingness to compromise for him.

“That’s not true,” she said quietly. The smile was gone now. “I have my … moments.”

Of stubbornness. Of pride.

She thought of her recent adultery with Harry. She definitely couldn’t say that she hadn’t done anything wrong at all.

It felt odd, how much and yet how little Ron really understood her. He felt so far away, even though he was walking with her. Side by side.

_Has it always been like this between us?_

They walked in silence again. Hermione thought she felt a rain drop.

“Is it true?”

She raised an eyebrow at Ron’s new question. The Ministry was within sight now. Hermione realized then that they’d long walked pass his shop, but she didn’t question him.

“I heard … you changed your name back,” Ron continued to say, sounding a little anxious now.

_Ah, Percy._

Hermione squeezed her Flourish and Blotts package closer to her chest.

“I wanted … proper closure,” she admitted.

Silence again.

She wished he’d say something more, but she couldn’t find the words to ask.

_Isn't this what you wanted?_

It was almost easier when one of them exploded in anger, like they usually did.

Rain began to fall in earnest. They could see a crowd of paparazzi in the distance.

“Did you hear?” Ron asked, suddenly very angry. He’d read the Prophet. “I tried to find Harry this morning, you know. Not that I don’t trust him, I mean, that photo—it could be a misunderstanding, but—a prostitute? Why would—”

“It’s not true, you know,” Hermione interjected, unable to hold back.

“He told you that?”

“I—” Hermione began, flustered to see in Ron’s face that he was feeling left out, but the paparazzi was running towards them now. “I’m sorry,” she said hurriedly. “We’ll talk about it later, okay?”

She began to walk away from him, shielding her face. They didn’t need another “scandal” in the newspapers today.

It was as if all the photographers had suddenly descended upon them. Flashlights drowned their sight. Microphones were shoved in their faces.

 _“Miss Granger-Weasley! What do you have to say about your former in-laws’ scandal?”_ _“Mr. Weasley! How do you feel about your best friend cheating on your sister? Tell us anything!”_

“I have nothing to say!” Ron exclaimed in exasperation, shoving a mike away from his face. “Hermione! Wait!”

“Go back, Ron, please,” she said, begging him not to make a scene as she waded through the crowd. “I must get back to work too—Excuse me. _Excuse me!_ ”

She gave him one last sympathetic look before disappearing into the building. Ron Weasley wanted to scream. This was their first conversation in a long time. The first time he got to speak to her without any interruption, without ending in a screaming match. He was _trying_. And it was cut short by exactly the people that, in his mind, ruined their marriage.

“You all need a life!!” he yelled at the growing crowd. “Write about things that actually matter!” Ron noticed a familiar face. “Hey, Seamus!” The burning anger in his voice was emanating from the tips of his bright red hair as he hovered over his old housemate. “Having fun prying into your old friends’ privacy? Why don’t you get a job that’s actually worth doing, eh?”

Seamus Finnagan made a pained expression, but picked up his camera again as soon as the reporter with him began to ask: “Mr. Weasley, are you two back together now? Can you tell us something about that?”

Ron held his temper long enough to not throw the new toy products in his arms at the nosey wizards. “ _No!_ ” he answered as he shoved them aside with his shoulders, heading back to his store. “And you better not go bother Hermione about it—she has more important things to fry!”

#

How was it only mid-day? So much had happened already, and Hermione still had to prepare for the Wizengamot hearing that was scheduled in two days. She had to admit that she felt guilty for not telling Ron the whole truth, but what can she say right now, before she’d even spoken to Harry? She wondered if he would be working overtime that evening too, and when he'd be back in his office. Returning to hers, she almost missed the purple paper plane that was pinned to her office door. Shacklebolt’s favorite color. For a moment, she thought that it was about Harry again. Oh, how wrong she was.

The message was short, simple, and it enraged her.

_DM here. My office pls, immediately._

Hermione crushed the paper plane and turned around. Her stride sped up with every step.

“YOU,” she snarled the moment she entered the Minister’s Office.

The tall, blonde wizard standing in the middle of the room barely moved a muscle when he glanced at her. His consternation paralleled hers, but only showed through the subtle clenching of his jaws.

“Me,” Draco Malfoy echoed evenly, almost sounding too lazy to even acknowledge her. He turned back to Kingsley. “I hope your senior undersecretary isn’t always this rude, Shacklebolt. It really doesn’t promote a positive office atmosphere.”

“Oh, spare us your theatrics, Malfoy,” Hermione snapped, taking long, decisive steps towards him. “You never responded to my owls. You had us assuming you’d be a no show for the hearing. And now you show up here unannounced anyway?!”

“For the record,” Draco corrected. “I called Shacklebolt before coming in.” It took him a lot of self-control to not back away, when she stalked up to him like an angry prey hunting its predator—or was it a predator hunting its prey? It was hard to tell with Hermione Granger. One moment, you’d think that she couldn’t possibly do any physical harm with her nose stuck in a book, but the next, her fist could be in your face.

She was too close for his comfort already, standing just several feet away. No, Draco didn’t like even being in the same room with her again, at all.

“Hermione, I do apologize,” Kingsley interjected, trying to smooth over an antagonistic situation that he didn’t quite anticipate. “It’s been a very hectic day. I sent you a message as soon as—”

“Thank you, Minister,” Hermione cut in with unusual vehemency. “But you are NOT the person I have an issue with right now.”

“What did I say about being rude?” Draco jibed again, tapping his cane against the floor. Hermione wanted to hex him for looking so amused by her barely contained anger. After all that had happened at the Malfoy Manor on the Friday prior, she had kept it secret from Kingsley, and remained the one keeping Draco informed of the Blood Equality Act hearing. It was _her_ project, _her_ Wizengamot case. She was going to see it through the end, and _he_ needed _her_ , too. How _dare_ he bypass her?

“You don’t get to pretend that I don’t exist,” she said more explicitly as she practically stood within his personal space now. The memory of him bound to his divan as Blaise Zabini had his way with her threatened to spill into her consciousness, but Hermione refused to stand down. She wasn’t afraid of him. She refused to be.

Draco knew what she was talking about. How could he not? Even glancing down at her office attire now, a buttoned up blouse and fitted trouser pants—all quite modest, really—he could remember the outline of her nude form. He could almost see her soft skin, molested by the hands of whom he had considered his best friend. Draco felt like he might feel sick again.

“I’m not … pretending,” he said, faltering just slightly as his eyes darted back to her face. She looked mighty pissed.

“Oh?” Hermione raised a scornful eyebrow at him. “So I _actually_ don’t exist now?”

“That’s not what I said.” Draco’s waggish facade was falling apart, replaced by raw frustration at the witch in front of him. He had to consciously relax his tight grip on his cane, to slow his breathing. _Salazar, I swear she can rile me up like no one else._

If anyone walked into Kingsley’s office now, they would’ve sworn that there were angry sparks scintillating between the younger witch and wizard, threatening to spill out into the open any minute.

“It would seem that,” Kingsley said with a cough, backing away slowly. “You two need … a moment.”

Before either could disagree, he’d walked out and closed the door behind him. For a while, they stood in silence, staring at the door together.

Hermione was the first to speak.

“Why.” She turned to face Draco again.

“Why what.” He was still glaring at the door, willing the Minister to come back already and save him from having to be alone with the furious witch.

“Why are you here.”

He refused to look at her. “To get a Wizengamot pass, of course,” he answered with feinted nonchalance. Draco patted his front shirt pocket. “Can’t be at the hearing without it, can I?”

Hermione frowned. It was a relief to hear that he intended to hold up his end of the promise. But.

“You know that’s not what I’m asking.”

Sure, but did that mean he had to go along with it? No.

“I brought this too,” Draco said, ignoring Hermione’s angry glare. He pulled out a thick roll of scrolls from his robes and let them unroll all the way to the floor. Hermione recognised them immediately. They were edits of the Blood Equality Act proposal—one that she had left with him last week, and another one that she’d owled him on Monday, in fact.

It also didn’t escape her notice that he’d scribbled notes between the lines.

“You read my letter,” she said in disbelief.

Draco scoffed. “Of course I read your letter.”

_Of course, you say?_

Hermione looked at the man standing in front of her like she was seeing him for the first time. He still showed very little emotion beyond bored annoyance, which looked to be permanently plastered over his features by now. It reminded her strongly of Lucius Malfoy, which wasn’t a pleasant thought.

“You wrote all of this?” she asked skeptically. Hermione crouched to the floor and picked up one end of the scroll, scanning over his comments and edits. He really did read it. Front to back, in fact.

Draco cleared his throat uncomfortably. He wasn’t about to tell her that he had made meticulous notes, in the hopes that he wouldn’t be in this precise situation right now - having to discuss anything with her in person. He was going to pick up the pass, leave the scroll with Shacklebolt, discuss a few technical matters, and leave. The nosey asshole just had to send her a silly paper airplane.

“These are good,” Hermione was now muttering to herself, fully absorbed by his surprisingly thoughtful comments and pertinent critiques. Draco watched in bewilderment as she sat down on the carpeted floor and began scribbling around his notes zealously, (with a quill that she had pulled out of nowhere, no less—the witch really was studious.)

It was beyond his common sense to sit down like that in public, even though he was the only one in the room with her. He’d noticed this about her on Friday, too. Hermione gave absolutely zero fucks to appearances when her brows were furrowed in concentration. She’d speak to herself, loudly. She’d settle down anywhere if it made her thought process easier, like she was doing then. He was also starting to notice that she would squint her eyes and bite her lower lip when she was deep in thought. Her eyes would light up with unparalleled excitement when she figured out a problem, and she’d scribble the solution away like mad— _What a strange witch._

“Definitely fixing this in Section XIII. Section XXI too,” Hermione was still saying. “Thankfully nothing major we couldn’t just include in an addendum.”

Draco remembered then why he ever thought that he could work with Hermione Granger at all, despite their questionable history. If he had doubted her professionalism and impartiality, he wouldn’t have bothered in the first place.

“Shit,” Hermione groaned.

Draco looked down, wondering what in the world he could have written to elicit such foul language from the Know-It-All’s pretty little mouth. ( _Pretty?_ Draco erased that irrelevant thought as soon as he conjured it.) He noticed then that her quill was leaking.

“I can’t believe I paid five Galleons for this,” Hermione mumbled, scorgifying the mess on her hands. She was starting to regret not just getting a new quill, like Mr. Blotts had suggested.

 _Five Galleons?_ Draco glowered. He’d never settle for a quill of such low quality. It reminded him then, of something that he had brought with him. Reaching into his robes, he rummaged around, found it, and handed it to her.

Hermione looked up. The way that her wide eyes skeptically traced over his features, every damn time, like she was studying a strange creature—it drove him nuts. Her eyes fell to his outstretched hand.

It was her good quill. The one that she thought that she had lost. 

“You … left it.” He didn’t need to say more about where or when. 

Hermione nodded quietly and took it from his hand. They both cast their eyes away from each other, frustrated by the knowledge that they were both remembering their uncomfortable encounter from the week before at that very moment.

“How?”

“How what.”

They were being real cryptic with each other today. Draco wanted to stupefy himself for deciding to bring it up.

“How are you fine … still working with me?”

“I’m not _fine_ , Malfoy,” Hermione spat back with such vitriol that it felt like a slap in his face, but she wasn’t done. “I never want to see what’s-his-face ever again,” she continued to say as she stood up, patting dust off her pants. “But I do need you on board for Friday … even if you had a tent in your pants as I was getting raped.”

A light blush coloured Draco’s cheeks.

“You make it sound like I wanted any part in it.”

“Your dick said otherwise.”

For the second time that day, Draco couldn’t believe what came out of her mouth, but he wasn’t about to pause and ponder on Hermione Granger’s surprising range of vocabulary right now.

“Right, because you weren’t moaning and writhing yourself.” His voice nearly cracked. 

“I was _DRUGGED_ , you jerk!” She looked ready to plunder him.

 _Fuck._ Draco immediately regretted his reflexes. _Why did I say that?_

Hermione’s cheeks were flushed too now, half in embarrassment, half in anger. “You should know,” she said. Tears brimmed in her eyes as she remembered the look of recognition on his face before Zabini had silenced him. She remembered the humiliation of giving in to her desires in front of two men she barely knew. Two men who once were part of everything that she was still fighting against. “Was that some sick ongoing joke for you? Were you gambling on how I’d react? How many other witches have—”

“No, I had no _fucking_ clu—I only found out after he’d already strapped me _to the fucking chair!_ ”

Draco’s sudden display of temper surprised her. _Where were these emotions earlier?_

“Blaise set me up,” he continued to explain, even though he wasn’t sure why he cared what she thought of him.

“Bullshit,” Hermione said scornfully, coming back to her senses. “Why would he? And don’t give me that b.s. about our revenge against Pansy Parkinson, when he clearly didn’t give a _shit_ about what _I_ wanted!”

Draco barely noticed any longer that her foul language was off the charts. He had already said too much.

“That’s not for me to share.” He was really beginning to regret all of this.

“Great,” Hermione responded sarcastically. “You ask me why I would still work with you, but you can’t share why he wanted you there as he raped me!”

“Can you stop saying that?”

“What, ‘rape’?” Hermione was livid. “Because what? It makes your pure-blood wizardry senses uncomfortable to hear about your familiar violating a muggle-born witch, apparently for your twisted pleasure?”

 _Merlin of the First Order—_ Draco gritted his teeth. He couldn’t deny how his body responded beyond his will, but he didn’t mean it that way. He just wanted her to stop associating him with Blaise’s heinous offence. Maybe he had wanted to even express his sincere-est regret for being a part of the assault, even though he never, ever, _ever_ intended to be any part of it! And Lord _forbid_ he asked a simple fucking question!

“You know what, forget it.”

“What?” Hermione’s voice went up an octave.

“This,” Draco said with venom in his voice. Calmness be damned. He pulled the Wizengamot pass out of his shirt pocket and slapped it onto Kingsley’s desk. “All of this,” he said, gesturing at the scroll in Hermione’s hands now. “I knew I shouldn’t have come here today.”

Hermione couldn’t believe what he was saying.

“Are you serious?”

“Yes, I _am_ serious,” Draco replied coldly, already turning away to leave the room. He realized that he had asked for more than he was willing to reciprocate, but Draco had his boundaries. He wasn’t about to tell her all about his private life just because she asked for it. He certainly wasn’t about to share Blaise’s idea of a revenge against him.

“Let me make this clear, Malfoy,” Hermione said, slapping the scroll down onto Kingsley’s desk too, as if it were in the way of their argument. She slammed her hand onto the door before he could open it. “Right now, you are backing out of your endorsement of a new legislature to protect the rights of muggle-born folk— _LIKE ME_ —because you can’t face the fact that your _pure-blood FRIEND_ violated _ME_ in front of _YOU_. By GOD, I could sue both of you even under the legislatures we have already! You didn’t even have the decency to—”

Draco slammed his fist against the door, right next to Hermione’s face. “I DIDN’T _WANT_ TO SEE YOU GET _RAPED_ , GRANGER—LIKE I SAID, I DIDN’T WANT _ANY_ PART IN IT! BUT IT’S SEARED INTO MY BRAIN NOW, AND I CAN’T HELP THAT! I CAN’T HELP THAT BLAISE _FUCKING TIED ME DOWN_ AND _MADE_ ME WATCH! I CAN’T HELP THAT IT TURNED ME O— _FUCK,_ I’M SORRY FOR NOT LOOKING AWAY, _OKAY?!_ ”

His outrage left Hermione speechless. Draco’s chest heaved heavily. His lips quivered, and his fist stay landed on the door right next to Hermione’s terrified face. It was so close to his that he could see her dilated pupils and her trembling lips. He could smell whatever fragrance it was that she was wearing - something citric, mixed with a pleasant faint smell of roses. _Salazar—_ Draco closed his eyes to fight back the anger bubbling within. Her scent will now forever be associated with this moment, when he had said far, far too much. Draco didn’t know why, but the thought enraged him.

Somebody knocked at the door. Both their faces paled, suddenly realising that their raised voices may have been audible to those in the external office. Draco and Hermione backed away from the door as it opened.

Kingsley didn’t even enter.

“I’m sorry to interrupt—”

Draco took it as his chance to exit.

“That’s fine, Minister,” he said, sweeping his cloak over his shoulder. “I really must go.”

“Sorry to bother you for so long,” Hermione added as well, following Draco out the door. She wasn’t done with him, but she knew her bounds. They’d been interrupting Kingsley’s day too long with their personal problems. Suddenly remembering, she ran back and grabbed the Wizengamot pass.

“Malfoy,” she called, even as the wizard clearly tried to ignore her.

“Malfoy, wait.”

Hermione caught up to him at the lift and entered, too, before he could stop her. She punched the close button, and the gates slammed shut, leaving them alone with each other again.

“What more do you want from me, witch,” Draco sighed, eyes shut close with one hand on his temple.

His cold words made her hesitate, but Hermione still took a step towards him. Draco’s eyebrows rose at the movement. His grip tightened on his cane, where he stored his wand, but to his surprise, she placed her hand on his cloak. Draco instinctively grabbed her hand.

Hermione stopped, but didn’t fight back. She waited until he’d calmed down to see that she wasn’t going to hit him.

“I’m not trying to hurt you.”

Draco scoffed at that, which made her blush. It wasn’t like she didn’t have a history of it. And yet, her gaze was still fixed onto him in such a way that he believed her. Hermione Granger wasn’t exactly a sneak.

He let go.

Taking that as consent, but still being mindful of his reaction, Hermione swept his cloak aside and returned the Wizengamot pass into his front shirt pocket. “Reconsider,” she said. “Please.”

Draco didn’t understand. He could barely recall what he actually said to her before Kingsley’s interruption. It was all in the heat of the moment. Why was she suddenly trying to be cordial again? And the hesitant but intimate way that she had just touched his chest—Draco didn’t realise how anxious it made him until she’d stepped back to stand defensively against the opposite wall.

_At least I’m not the only one nervous here._

“You need me that much, huh,” he heard himself say. His throat felt dry suddenly.

The way that she grimaced told him that it was the wrong thing to say, but Draco didn’t care anymore. Their two encounters so far had stripped him of what was left of his dignity. He’d say anything to feel better right now. Hermione didn’t speak back, so they just stood in silence at a safe distance from each other, as the lift zoomed through the building. Neither noticed that Draco had pressed a random button until they ended up in the Department of Mysteries.

For a brief moment, Draco considered opening the gates and getting off, even though he had no business there. He just wanted to avoid the offending witch. His pride, however, would not allow it. So he pressed the correct button this time, with Hermione still in the lift. He can last another five minutes with her, if he must.

Hermione’s lips parted again, which made him uneasy.

“I didn’t realise that it was traumatizing for you, too,” she said, briefly casting her eyes to the marble floor. “I’m … sorry that I didn’t think about that.”

Draco was sure he’d misheard.

Did she just apologise? To him?

He also wanted to argue that it wasn’t “traumatising” at all, but suddenly, he wasn’t so sure. Was that why he felt so angry at Blaise?

Hermione watched his expression subtly change from disdain, to disbelief, to confusion. He could have fooled her again with his seeming reticence, but she’d seen the genuine shock in his face after his confession. That was a side of Draco Malfoy that she'd never seen. A side of Malfoy that hid behind his almost pathological need to act superior. It reminded her of the hopefulness that she had felt, when they shook hands at the Malfoy Manor. It reminded her that he had thanked her for agreeing to work with him. She knew that she’d seen something sincere there, even if it were just for a moment. 

“If you really didn’t want to see me today,” she asked, trying to see things from his perspective. “Why … did you bring my quill with you?”

Draco frowned.

The lift came to a halt.

“I don’t know, Granger,” he said, pushing the gates wide open with the tip of his cane. He stepped out, but paused just across the boundary into the Ministry Atrium.

“Maybe I’m not quite the monster you make me out to be.”

#

“Here’s your usual, miss.”

“Thank you.” Hermione gave the delivery boy money in exchange for her dinner box. “No change.”

A few other Ministry employees showed up to pick up their delivery, one of whom Hermione recognised was from the Auror’s Office.

“Hello Will,” she greeted the young auror, who acknowledged her respectfully.

“Good evening, Undersecretary,” Will said, paying the delivery boy.

Hermione scanned over his order, which towered over hers significantly. “Is Harry’s dinner ... in there too?”

#

“Delivery’s here.”

Harry looked up from his desk. His tense features softened when he saw that it was Hermione, and saw the two dinner boxes in her hands. “Hey,” he said. “Got a craving for stir fry too?”

Hermione smiled, placing them on top of the quarterly reports haphazardly piled across his desk. “Nothing beats good Chinese after a long day,” she said, helping him stack the papers to a side.

“Tell me about it,” Harry sighed, scratching his brow. “ … What a mess, huh.”

Hermione frowned. She understood that he wasn’t talking about his desk.

“I heard you didn’t want a press con,” she said, gently broaching the sensitive topic.

Harry pulled out a cigarette. “Mmm,” he hummed vaguely, lighting his cig and taking a drag.

“I would’ve done it with you,” Hermione said, sitting down across from him. “I still would.”

Harry looked up to meet her serious eyes. He smiled a little. “I know,” he said, exhaling. Of course she would.

“But it’s a personal matter,” he continued, taking another drag before sitting down, too. He killed his cigarette and grabbed for his food and chopsticks. Hermione still didn’t touch her food.

“Ron lost his job, you know …” she said softly.

Harry paused at her worried tone. He noticed then that Hermione’s eyes were now focused somewhere far away. He put aside his food and placed a hand on her clutched hands.

“Hermione,” Harry reminded her, as gently as possible. “He was caught seeing Pansy while on duty … Chief Robards wouldn’t fire me over getting piss drunk in my off hours … with a woman or not.”

Ron’s infidelity being plastered on all the front pages, and its consequences to his job at the Ministry and their marriage, was easily the lowest low in her time with him. It was hard to shake that. And Harry was probably right about his situation, but it still didn’t put her mind at rest.

She squeezed Harry’s hand. “If you’re staying quiet just to protect me though,” she said, feeling very uneasy. Harry squeezed back before she finished her sentence.

“Like I said, I shouldn’t have to. … How’s that going, by the way?” he asked, letting go of her hand and handing her a dinner box. Hermione wished he wouldn't change the topic, but thanked him and gestured for him to start eating too. No point starving themselves while they talked.

Over dinner, she told him about her meeting with Draco Malfoy earlier in the day.

“I’m not sure if he’d show, to be honest,” she admitted. It wasn’t like Draco promised.

“You don’t need him,” Harry comforted her.

Hermione shook her head. “Maybe, but it’d make for a much stronger case—an ex-Death Eater and future head of house from an ancient pure-blood family? There are very few whose support would be as symbolic.”

Harry frowned. “That’s true, but Malfoy is hardly trustworthy.”

Well, Hermione didn't have 100% confidence in him, either, but their exchange earlier in the elevator oddly did make her feel closer to the Slytherin. Hermione pondered over Draco's last words to her before leaving, to which Harry countered by recounting the many occasions when Draco Malfoy had bullied them, snitched on them, which really wasn't that hard to do. Hermione, on her end, recalled the day that they thought they were done for, back when the Snitches kidnapped them to the Malfoy Manor. 

"He didn't expose us, you know," she said, "back then." 

"He didn't save us either," Harry pointed out, slurping his noodles. 

"He also tried to convince Crabbe not to kill you," Hermione said of the incident in the Room of Requirement during the Battle of Hogwarts. 

Harry looked at her curiously.

"What?" she asked, suddenly uncomfortable under his gaze.

"I didn't know you had a soft spot for the ferret." 

"Nonsense."

Harry made an amused expression but didn't tease her any further. They ate in silence for a while, giving Hermione the time to gather enough courage to ask the question that she'd wanted to address from the start.

“Have you … spoken with Ginny?”

Harry shook his head without looking at her.

“She owled me," he said. "Said she was going to Glasgow on assignment until tomorrow night."

The indifference in his tone concerned her. She noticed, too, how Harry didn’t really answer her question. It seemed strange as well that Ginny hadn't demanded a prompt explanation from him; even Ron had received a howler from her when his scandal with Pansy broke.

“I suppose you’ll get to talk to her tomorrow then,” Hermione pressed, poking around her noodles.

Harry still didn’t say anything to that. He just finished the last of his stir fry, threw the box away, and pulled out another cigarette. 

“You can’t avoid her forever,” Hermione said, more firmly now, as Harry lit his cigarette.

“Whether demanding for your needs, or just listening to what she has to say ... you have to talk. And tell her about the photos, too. The ones you got earlier this month.”

She wished now that they hadn’t burnt the strange, anonymous tip on Dean and Ginny's relationship. It was something that still bothered her. 

_Who was it that had sent Harry those photos?_

_And who stalked him the night before?_

_Were they the same person?_

“And whatever is between her and Dean," she continued to say, remorsefully now.  "… we’ve made a mistake too.” Harry glanced at her then. “Maybe Ginny deserves the truth about that as well.” It scared her to think what it would mean for her friendship with Ginny, or her relationship with the Weasleys, but she should own up to her own mistakes, shouldn’t she? ... It was only fair.

“Was it?”

"What?"

Harry took another drag and exhaled slowly before asking again. “Was it a mistake? For you?”

He leaned forward, closer to her. 

“Well," Hermione blushed. "I mean we—”

“I thought you said it meant something,” Harry continued to say. He crushed his cigarette. “You came here that morning. You said that I made you feel safe.”

“I did,” Hermione stammered. 

“You said that it was special.”

“It was,” she said, getting a little defensive. His sudden intensity and candour flustered her. Harry almost felt like a stranger suddenly. “I meant that, I still do … ” she said, feeling a little emotional again. She did love what they shared. So much that she wished they could have it again. She wished nothing else in the world could taint what they shared. “But that doesn’t mean what we did wasn’t hurtful to others, does it? Wouldn’t you call that a … mistake?”

Harry’s eyes remained fixed on hers for a long while. Hermione didn’t know where to look. When he finally looked away, Harry sighed heavily and took his glasses off to hold his face in his hands.

“Harry,” Hermione whispered, putting away her now empty dinner box to sit closer to him. He worried her. The silence. The out of control drinking. And now this. “... What is going on?”

“I understand what you’re saying,” Harry said, barely above a whisper. Hermione squeezed his hand encouragingly, even though she was fearful of what he was about to say. Harry seemed to be having a difficult time finding the right words, too.

“Remember what we heard?” he finally asked, looking up at her again with slightly blood-shot eyes. He looked like he was about to cry. “At the top of the stairs,” he elaborated, when Hermione looked at him uncomprehendingly. “At the Burrow … on James’ birthday.”

Hermione gulped silently. “Yes,” she answered. How could she forget? She'd just seen Ron earlier that day, too. She hadn't told Harry that yet. 

“I did go home last night, Hermione,” he said, his voice now shaking. Hermione’s jaw dropped, suddenly realising where this was going. “No.”

“I heard her,” Harry continued. “I heard her, and him and—I could tell how much she—” Anger and shame and everything else he’d kept inside threatened to overflow. “And I—” He squeezed Hermione’s hand back, with a grip that was much stronger than hers. “It made me miss you,” he finally confessed, his voice breaking. “More than anything, it made me miss you.”

Hermione parted her lips, but no words came. She thought her heart would stop. Harry felt like his heart would burst, staring at her quivering mouth, wondering how he’d lasted the whole day, humiliated in public, scorned by his wife, quarantined by his boss, and still all he cared about was seeing this woman that sat across from him. She was the one who was there with him until the bitter end. The one he turned to when things fell apart.The one who got away. And Harry thought he'd wait until work was over. He thought he'd risk the chance and sneak to her place under his invisibility cloak. But here she was, looking for him with comfort food in tow. Harry didn’t want to wait any longer.

With his hand still on hers, he leaned forward until their noses touched.

“Harry,” Hermione finally found her voice, even though it was barely above a whisper. She caught her breath when he didn’t stop.

His kiss was tender, just as it had been that morning. The way he sucked onto her lips, the way his tongue urged her to respond in kind—God, she was only beginning to finally forget how he tasted. Now she wasn’t sure if she’d ever be able to forget. “Harry,” she gasped once more, pleading him to give her a moment, but Harry wrapped his arms around her instead, pulling her even closer.

“Do you want to?” he asked. It was the same question that she had asked him, before the first time that they had sex.

Hermione couldn’t find her words again. His bright green eyes looked into hers so imploringly, like he never had. She felt a little light headed. A little weak in the knees.

“Don’t think about anything else,” Harry said, stroking her face affectionately. He trailed his fingers down to her lips. He’d missed holding her like this. He’d missed it so much.

“Just tell me,” he asked. “Do you want me, too?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm baaaaaack! Sorry to leave you on a cliff hanger, but I had to stop SOMEWHERE. Lord, I am a sinner. What are your thoughts on Harmione? Deanny? Draco???
> 
> Please subscribe/bookmark to stay updated, and leave me your kudos and comments. HUGE motivators for me. I promise I read and respond x
> 
> Next chapter: Exceeding Expectations.


End file.
